


lead me home

by blasphemia, riseelectric



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AU typical violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Artistic Liberties, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Roleplay Logs, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 89,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasphemia/pseuds/blasphemia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/riseelectric/pseuds/riseelectric
Summary: Far from home, stuck in the U.S. with his best friend in a coma and the zombie apocalypse bearing down on him, Iwaizumi survives.[The Walking Dead AU RP]





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> i've been itching to rp iwa in a zombie au for ages and finally found a partner to write with, so here it is. note, this is NOT edited to fit novel/story format, this IS an rp log. sorry if you're not used to that, we're only sticking this on ao3 because i keep accidentally deleting chunks of it lol
> 
> iwa is written by me, oikawa is written by blasphemia! each line break constitutes the end of a reply/switch of author/switch of pov.

Ninety-eight days.

It’s been ninety-eight days and counting since the world went to absolute shit, and Iwaizumi still hasn’t given up on the patient in Room 401. The hospital isn’t a large one; he’d cleared it of walkers long ago, and secured its perimeter so none of the dead would be able to come meandering back into the building. He keeps a few of them wandering the hospital grounds though, just as a deterrent to any other scavengers looking for medical supplies.

He’s lucky, he supposes. His role as a scavenger is permanent; once he’d proved his worth, the men leading his current group had wanted him as a defender, a guard for the wall, or a full-time medic. But he’d refused flat-out to stay unless he was given the freedom only a scavenger had, and they were willing to give him what he wanted to keep him.

They see value in him because he’ll fight and because he had been a med student, outsider though he is. In their town, he’s not the only person of Asian descent, but he is the only one who speaks Japanese.

He still gets homesick. Terribly, terribly homesick.

But as always, he pushes it down. All of it. The homesickness, the gut-wrenching fear and the _not knowing_ of what’s happened to all his friends and family in Miyagi… and he scavenges. Every day, he leaves the fortified little town and heads back towards the outskirts of the city, leaving in the morning and coming back just before night fell. He brings back whatever he can find, of course. If he doesn’t contribute, he doesn’t have a place there. He helps out in the medical bay whenever he can, making a conscious effort to be an active part of the little community. Because he knows that he’ll never be one of them, not really. He’s a foreigner in this land, and even if they’re friends today, he’s not sure at all if any of them will have his back tomorrow should he outlive his usefulness. So, he stays on their good sides, calls them his companions, for now.

What he doesn’t tell them is where he goes when he’s out, and what his real priorities are.

Inside the hospital, every hallway and every room is in a state of disarray, remnants of chaos strewn every which way. There are bullet holes in the walls, there’s dried blood on the floor, there’s even bodies Iwaizumi hadn’t bothered to drag away. It doesn’t matter. These ones won’t be coming back, he’d made sure of that. It’s a dark, gloomy place, dank and dead. Most of the lights are either broken, or flickering.

Room 401 is the only room he keeps lit. When he’s not there, he takes care to pull a stretcher in front of the door, blocking it.

Stepping inside is like stepping back into the history of a bygone past, before the dead started eating the living. The room is quiet and tidy. Peaceful. The walls are intact; a vase stands on the bedside table, filled with flowers Iwaizumi picks from the overgrown courtyard. The window is cracked open, shades pulled so sunlight streams inside. Its rays fall upon the bed, where a sole occupant lay.

It’s been difficult in every aspect, and with each passing day, keeping Oikawa Tooru alive gets even harder. When the ventilator had finally broken down about two months ago, so had Iwaizumi, thinking that this was it, he was going to lose the only person he cares about in this foreign country, that he’s going to be left alone now, all alone.

It wasn’t until five minutes later that he looked up through blurry, tear-filled vision that he realised: Oikawa was still breathing. Even without the ventilator, he was still breathing.

And he hasn’t stopped. Since then, Iwaizumi has increased his visits to the hospital, at least once every three days. Some days, if he’s lucky, he’s even able to stay for a few hours. When he does, he talks to Oikawa like he’s listening, clasps Oikawa’s limp hand in his own for the duration of his stays. He talks about everything, and nothing. He talks about scavenging, about town life. He reminisces about Miyagi, about Aoba Jousai, about their childhood days. Sometimes, he reads to him; it’s only the Webster-Merriam dictionary, but the more English vocabulary Iwaizumi learns, the better.

Other times, he tells Oikawa other things. Terrible things. Things that keep Iwaizumi awake and afraid to fall asleep, things that give him nightmares when he does, things that make him never want to leave that little hospital room to go out into a cruel, hungry world again. He tells Oikawa of how all their lives now revolve around fear; fear as a motivation, as a state of being, as a fact of life. Talking out loud to the silent room and its silent occupant doesn’t always help, and neither do tears. But with Oikawa still breathing, Iwaizumi has a reason to come back. To keep _on_ coming back.

Oikawa may still be alive because of Iwaizumi’s visits to the hospital, but Iwaizumi is still alive because of Oikawa’s continued existence.

“There’s been a hostile bandit group harassing our scavengers for the past week.” he said, leaning across Oikawa to place fresh flowers on the bedside table. It’s just dandelions, but the yellow looks nice against the blue of the vase. “They’ve been demanding supplies from us, even threatening to attack if we don’t comply. We’re going to parley tomorrow afternoon, see if we can come to some sort of compromise.”

He doesn’t say that there had been shots fired, that already men had died on both sides, and that just yesterday he’d sustained a gunshot graze to his thigh when he’d been returning to the town with his supplies. None of that mattered. No matter what happened, he was going to live.

“I’ll be back for you,” he had whispered instead, and brushed his lips against Oikawa’s forehead. “I’ll see you in two days, Tooru.”

That was a week ago.

Without Iwaizumi’s careful monitoring and strategic trimming, the dead in the courtyard of the hospital begin to accumulate once more, stumbling and standing about aimlessly. Waiting for something to come along. Something to eat, perhaps. Or someone.

Getting inside the hospital now, or getting out… either way, in the path stands now the dead.


	2. awakening

He hears voices. Muffled, like there’s something separating them and him, as if he’s submerged in water, or simply because his mind is too foggy to properly distinguish the words, sometimes even the voices, from each other. Most of them, he doesn’t recognise, but one stands out, familiar and calming, even when the voice itself isn’t calm.

There’s darkness, and then light, fluorescent and artificial, too white and sterile, so unlike the soft Sendai summer sun, too bright to look at directly. Not that it matters, since his vision is still too blurred for him to make out any silhouettes.

He can barely make out the words spoken, much less whole sentences, and most of the time he’s too tired to even try. Despite being unable to understand what is said, he’s comforted by the single familiar presence that seems to return again and again, even though he has no way of making his consciousness known to him.

At one point, he feels the warmth and pressure of fingers around his own, a hand in his, and he _wants_ to squeeze it, to reach up and reciprocate the touch. He tries to, but his body won’t cooperate, and when he finally manages to move his finger, just slightly, the hand that had rested on his is long gone, and both the warmth of the touch and the familiar voice are replaced by the cold emptiness of the unfamiliar room as he loses consciousness once more.

 

 

He wakes with a startle, opening his eyes for a moment, but squeezes them shut instantly as the lights blind him, reaching his arms up to cover his face as he squints up at the ceiling, getting used to the light. He rests his arms to his sides again, grimacing at how sore his arms feel, almost as if he’s been working out every single muscle in his arms and shoulder to the point of exhaustion the night before.

There’s a more pointed pain in both arms, one that started the second he moved them up to his head, and after he opens his eyes to look down at the offender, he instantly reaches one hand up to pull the I.V. out of his arm before doing the same thing to his other arm, wincing as he tries to look at anywhere but the needles he just pulled out of his skin.

Tooru’s entire body still _aches,_ not as much as his head, the throbbing against his temples worse than any migraine he’s had in years, but he forces himself to sit up anyway, looking around the room and quickly realizing where he is from the . A hospital.

He opens his mouth to speak; to cry out or yell for help, but no words come out, nothing except a raspy exhale before his throat constricts, too dry to make any sounds.

His entire mouth feels completely parched, swallowing outright painful since he barely has any saliva left in his mouth, and he reaches up to grab around his neck as if touching it would stop the pain before he looks around, grabbing the nearest thing — a vase, blue with yellow flowers — but stiffens as his eyes fix on a plastic bottle full of water.

He puts down the vase again slowly, leaning in over the bedside table, pulling it slightly closer to the bed and grabbing the bottle, leaning back against the pillow as he opens it, greedily pouring the water into his mouth, emptying almost half of it before he screws the lid back on, wiping off his now-wet chin.

When Tooru swallows this time, the pain is more subdued, and after a few long moments of assessing the situation and regaining his breath — he doesn’t want to question why simply sitting up and gulping down some water is making him breathless just yet — he swings his legs out over the bed to the floor, pushing himself down from it and landing elegantly on his feet.

That is, until his legs give out underneath him. Tooru doesn’t get a chance to take a single step forward before he falls, clumsily landing on his ass and managing to brace himself against the bed with one arm out of instinct, and it’s only when he looks down at himself, under the thin hospital gown he’s wearing, that he realises the state he’s in.

His legs are paler than he remembers them ever being, a few dark bruises here and there more obvious against the skin that looks almost unhealthily white, but what really gets to him is how _skinny_ he looks, his muscle mass having lessened significantly since—since… before whatever happened happened.

He knows he’s still in America, or at least he assumes from the signs on the wall and the few letters visible on the machines, one of which is turned off completely. There are no obnoxious beeping sounds replicating his heart, no doctors or cute nurses running to his rescue now that he’s awake, simply Tooru, sitting awkwardly where he just fell on his own feet on the floor, with his entire body aching and the thumping in the back of his head growing more vicious by the second.

He manages, _somehow_ , to pull himself up into the bed again, to massage his own legs until the aching turn more bearable — and for the first time he’s grateful for the experience he has gained from several sports injuries during his teenage years — and his limbs don’t feel as heavy as lead when he tries lifting them from the bed.

He gets up again, this time much slower, more carefully, supporting himself on nearby furniture with his arms as he slowly makes his way around the room, looking for his medical journal, a calendar, or a phone laying around, _anything_ that can tell him more about his situation or why the fuck no doctors have arrived to check up on him now that he’s conscious again.

His eyes land on the small window on the far right wall, covered completely by the dark curtain, and he realises that he has absolutely no idea what time of the day it is or even what date it is. His headache is still raging and part of him is too aware of how different from usual the state he’s in is, too scared of finding out that the date is further into the future than he’d expect.

His memories are still too clouded, his thinking too foggy for him to properly remember when whatever put him in the hospital happened, but he’s slowly regaining his memories by the minute, the feeling that there’s something, an important event or memory that he has forgotten, something that could shed a light on why he’s here, _alone_ , and with an unsettled feeling in his chest, like there’s something he should be aware of, wary even.

Tooru is between the bed and the cabinet by the door, trying to look for something to eat when he hears a low, barely audible sound from outside. He reacts instinctively, panic and adrenaline spreading through him as he grabs for the nearest object — once again the vase by the bed, pulling the flowers out and throwing them onto the table as he jumps back against the wall right by the door, pressing his ear against the wall as he listens for more sounds, the ache in his limbs replaced by adrenaline, the loud beating of his heart all the way up in his throat making it hard for him to even focus on listening after any further sounds outside. Maybe he simply misheard — or maybe it’s just the doctor _finally_ arriving to check up on him — but when he hears another sound, a low _thud_ , this time even closer to the door, he raises the vase next to his head as if it’s a weapon, holding his breath in anticipation.

 

* * *

 

Coming here is probably a terrible mistake. It was bad enough he’d had knocked out his guard and donned her gas mask in order to escape the lockdown the town was now under. He had been beaten black and blue for resisting when the bandits breached their defenses and took the town, almost to the point of unconsciousness until one of their leaders had noticed the red cross on the bandana tied to his upper arm. Then they’d dragged him away from the rest of the prisoners and back to the med bay. They told him he’s only alive because the bandits currently didn’t have anyone in the medical profession, and that if he cooperated, he would be allowed to stay alive.

Of course, they told him more than that: first of all, they’d asked him, loudly and slowly and condescendingly, if he could understand what they were saying. When he’d answered through gritted teeth that yes, he understood, they’d mocked him for his accented speech, and then proceeded to call him ‘chinaman’ and ‘chink’ when he refused to give them his name. He doesn’t bother correcting them, doesn’t answer when other bandits approached him with more kindness and less xenophobia. The townspeople had called him Iwa (“I--what?” they’d said when he told them his full name, so he’d shaken his head and told them to stick to just the first two syllables), but these are not his townspeople, and they will never be his friends.

That was how he spent the last six days since negotiations failed: treating, bandaging, and stitching up the wounds of the raiders who invaded and butchered his town. Standing by, unable to do anything as several of his friends were murdered and fed to walkers to set as an example to anyone else who thought of fighting back.

The bandits all wore gask masks, even in the heat. Whether it was for intimidation, protection, anonymity, or all three, Iwaizumi doesn’t know, but he does know that they take it off in front of him when they went to the medical bay. That was how he’d been able to plan and execute his escape. He knows the woman guarding him had dislocated her shoulder and was favouring it; he’d gone for the same shoulder when he’d attacked her unprovoked, caught her off guard and knocked her out cold with her own gun. He had muttered an instinctive “Sorry.” and then taken her armour and weapons for himself, dragging her to a utility closet and barring the door with a chair. Her gas mask he slips over his face, and that was how he’d left the town: by causing a minor diversion on the east side while he scaled the western wall and out into the night.

Oikawa’s hospital is a full half a day’s journey away, made more difficult by running from bandit patrols and wandering walkers. By the time the hospital itself is in sight, it’s high noon, he’s hungry and dehydrated and exhausted, sweltering in the mask. Every ache, every bruise from his beating is throbbing; his left eye is still swollen, barely able to see, and his split lip is bleeding again. He’s been running since dawn, hasn’t stopped, hasn’t been able to stop. He’s thirsty. He keeps looking back over his shoulder, fearing for followers, fearing a bullet’s going come whizzing past his head any second.

He’s so _tired_.

The heat is almost suffocating in this mask.

Now, looking at the hospital courtyard teeming with walkers, he realises he can’t take it off just yet, even when he wants to so badly, just to get a breath of fresh air. He can’t use the gun to get past this many dead. Too loud, and not enough bullets. He has the machete he’d taken from the guard, but he’s just barely keeping on his feet now, let alone having the strength to fight past a small horde. He should leave, hole up elsewhere, somewhere safer.

But now, at his strength and wit’s end, he only wants one thing, and that is to see Oikawa. Just to see his face would be enough. Let everything else come after him then.

So Iwaizumi does the only thing left for him to do. He catches a walker alone, drags it into the shelter of the empty parking lot, and splits open its abdomen. He tears out its entrails and slathers stinking, putrid meat onto his stolen armour paddings, slathering it thickly over his chest, his arms, what he can reach of his back.

Once he’s covered in and smelled like the dead, he joins them. Makes his way slowly, so slowly, past the shambling crowd, making his careful way to the padlocked doors of the hospital entrance. He makes no sudden movements, makes no noise. He’s forced to put a broken pipe through the skulls of the ones who came too close to him for comfort, and he’s thankful for the gas mask then, when rotted brain matter splatters across his covered face.

It takes him twenty agonising minutes to get past them all, but the desperate strategy worked. Thank fucking god, it worked.

He opens the entrance, kills the ones who followed him inside, and re-seals the door. Without resting, he hurries up the stairways, feet dragging, broken pipe dropped in his haste to just, get away, to get to Oikawa.

He has to lean heavily on the wall for support by the time he gets to the fourth floor, falling against it several times as he makes his way to Room 401. His head is pounding, every limb is aching, every muscle screaming.

Iwaizumi bursts through the door, practically crashing through it, not even bothering to take the mask off first. His tired gaze flickers instinctively to the bed-- and his entire body freezes at the sight of the empty frame.

 

* * *

 

The door crashes open before he has time to react further, but in doing so it also shelters him from the intruder’s immediate view, hidden behind the door as the person steps further into the room, broad frame turned towards his empty bed, a gas mask covering their face.

The man _reeks_ of dirt and rot, his already dark clothes covered in something equally dark and wet, and Tooru really isn’t interested in finding out _what_ it is, much less where the smell comes from. It’s enough to send a wave of nausea over him, and he’d probably be bent over vomiting from just the smell if his stomach wasn’t completely empty right now.

Whoever the intruder is, Tooru figures from what he can see from this distance that he’s around the same height as himself, at least not taller than Tooru, even though Tooru’s posture isn’t what it used to be at the moment, since standing up is a feat in itself, much less holding on to the vase in his hand. The intruder is broader, though, and even though he’s seemingly unarmed, Tooru is unsure if he can put up a proper fight in this state.

He clutches onto the vase anyway, cursing himself for picking such a useless makeshift weapon, eyes flicking between the back of the stranger and the door as he weighs his options in his head. He’s already in plain sight of the intruder if he just turns around, so he can’t hide and wait it out. He either has to fight or flight.

He regrets his decision to hide behind the door the second he realises that it’s now the _door_ itself blocking him from the only exit in the room.

Tooru normally wouldn’t resort to violence unless absolutely necessary, but he figures that waking up in a foreign hospital room, his memories of whatever put him there still hazy, and the only person coming to check up on him being someone who looks like he’s taken out of a horror movie, is enough of a reason for him to be wary.

He raises the vase over his head for momentum, stepping forward so he’s no longer behind the door, blocked from his only exit, before he swings the vase at the back of the intruder’s head with all of the strength he has left in his arms, stumbling forward in the process and only barely managing to keep his balance, his mind already trying to figure out how fast he can turn around for the door and run for it.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps under different circumstances, or with more time to properly observe the room, his first reaction might have been joy at the sight of the empty bed, or hope.

As it is, with his nerves frayed to breaking point and his mind fuzzy with the pain of his wounds and probably heatstroke, it’s fear that wells up in Iwaizumi’s chest to close his throat. Fear, and despair; an overwhelming, _crushing_ torrent of it. In the few seconds he stares at the place where Oikawa isn’t, he realises in an abstract part of his mind that he’s starting to hyperventilate. In an even more detached part of his mind, he recognises it as the beginning of a panic attack.

An involuntary noise escapes him. Oikawa’s name.

“Tooru--”

That’s when he hears a noise behind him.

Iwaizumi half-turns, eyes wide-- just in time to see something blue swinging rapidly towards him. He isn’t able to react in time, and there’s a loud _crack_ as the vase connects with the side of his head. He stumbles, loses his footing. His vision blacks out completely, a starburst of excruciating agony the only sensation that blots out his world.

By the time he crumples to the floor, Iwaizumi is unconscious.


	3. reunion

He is already half turned towards the door when he recognises the voice, familiar despite the unusual gruffness behind and the mask muffling the sound. Then, he recognises the name spoken — his _own_ name — and he freezes mid-step, putting two and two together before he turns around again, falling on his knees next to the unconscious body of his best friend.

Tooru pulls the mask up over his head, grimacing when his fingers are dirtied by whatever substance is covering the mask, but he breathes out in relief for the first time since he woke up when he sees Hajime’s face, pulling his head up to rest in Tooru’s lap without too much trouble despite how heavy the limp body feels, instantly comforted by the presence of Hajime.

Then he takes in the state he’s in.

Whatever was covering his mask hasn’t touched his face, to Tooru’s relief, but there are still a few dirt marks and bruises covering his skin, and that’s nothing compared to the _injuries_ he’s sporting, a swollen left eye — Tooru can’t see how bad it is since both of his eyes are shut — and a split lip, some of the blood having dried out, some still crimson red and fresh.

His hair is a mess too, and longer than what Tooru is used to, once again making him wonder just how long he’s been out for, but what raises the most questions is his clothes, some sort of padding placed in strategic places, once again reminding Tooru of some horror game character wearing armour, and the decaying innards and something that looks like blood, except darker and more smelly, covering most of him. Tooru looks down at his hand again, grimacing in disgust and wiping it on his hospital gown, the reddish brown staining the light blue fabric.

He turns his attention to Hajime’s face again, cradling his cheek and turning his face up against Tooru’s own, but Hajime doesn’t react, and Tooru reaches his fingers up, combing them through the hair on the side of Hajime’s face to check if he somehow managed to put a hole in his head and kill him, but finds no wound. The vase is on the floor, cracked into two. He reaches down, checking for a pulse on Hajime’s neck, and exhales in relief for the second time in a short time frame before he presses his hand against Hajime’s cheek again, staring down at him.

“Iwa-chan? Hey, h-…Hajime?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, still shaky despite the relief he’s feeling over the fact that he _didn’t_ just kill his best friend with a vase.

After a few moments of trying to get Hajime to respond, Tooru looks around the room again, eyes fixing on another door on the far left wall, opened just enough for him to see the sink inside from where he’s sitting.

He lifts Hajime’s head off of his lap before crawling towards the bed, pulling himself up with his arms before limping over to the door on shaky legs, pushing it open further and turning on the faucet, relieved when it spurts out water after a few seconds.

He cleans his hand first, before reaching out for a washcloth that looks less clean than he’d like, but he figures it’ll have to do for now, wetting the cloth with the cold water — the tap is turned completely to the red side, yet the water pouring out is cold. He opens his mouth, to let out a comment about American hospitals, but stops himself when he remembers what state Hajime is in, returning to the room and kneeling on the floor next to Hajime again, pulling him up by the neck, careful not to manhandle him too roughly as he places Hajime’s head in his lap again, gently dabbing the washcloth against his forehead in hopes that it’ll wake him up and, hopefully, clean him just a little bit.

After recovering from the initial shock of seeing his best friend in this state, Tooru’s own pains and problems return to him, the soreness of his muscles, the throbbing headache in the back of his head—

He remembers an illness, a possible treatment, how worried his parents had been about him being hospitalized in a foreign country. He remembers trying to comfort them by reminding them that Hajime was with him, and then—

Grimacing, he reaches up, pressing two fingers against his temple in an attempt at stopping the ache. An illness would explain why he found himself in the hospital, not why no doctors had showed up to help him. And it definitely wouldn’t explain the state Hajime is in, the clothes he’s wearing, or the… whatever stinking shit he’s covered in.

Right now, Tooru doesn’t really care either. He just wants some painkillers, something to eat, and for Hajime to fucking _wake up_ again and call him mean names, to tell him that it’s all a misunderstanding and that Tooru is just being dramatic again.

 

* * *

 

The first sensation he becomes aware of as he claws his way back from the cloying darkness is of coolness against his forehead. Sweet, cold relief that soothes the headache beating a tattoo against the inside of his skull and dulls the fires of feverish dreams. His body still throbs and hurts, but it’s dim, coming as if from far away and to someone else. There’s a warmth pressed against him that he hasn’t felt since he was a child and had fallen asleep either on his mother’s lap, or on Tooru.

It’s more than that. For the first time in weeks, Iwaizumi doesn’t wake to the fear of having to face yet another day. For the first time since he came to this country, he’s reminded of home, of Sendai. There’s a gentle hand against his face, and when it moves away he turns towards it instinctively, making a barely audible noise of distress at the thought of its absence.

Slowly, hesitantly, he opens his eyes, left one slitted through the swelling.

He looks up into concerned brown eyes, eyes he hasn’t seen in _months_ , warm and familiar and at the sight of them Iwaizumi feels a low tremble start up from deep within him. He isn’t religious, but at this moment he finds himself praying to god, to any god, that he’s not dreaming. Not because this is a nightmare, but because something in him will break-- irreparably-- if he wakes up from this now. It’s a good dream… and in the world they live in now, these kinds of dreams-- ones where people you love are alive and well when they are not in the real world-- are the worst and cruelest kind of nightmare.

He doesn’t notice tears beginning to drip steadily from his eyes to disappear into his bloodied hair. He dares not blink, dares not look away.

“Tooru?” he utters again, hoarsely.

One hand reaches up to cup Oikawa’s face, but at the sight of the stained military glove he forces himself to pull back. He braces his palms against the floor and struggles to sit up so fast that dizziness overwhelms him and he sways, almost falling over again. But he doesn’t even notice, doesn’t even care. The machete and gun clatter carelessly to the floor. Already he’s ripping his stolen armour off, all of it, hastily and feverishly: the gloves, the kevlar vest, and then the padded jacket underneath. Everything smeared with the unthinkable he hurls away from himself, and his eyes never leave Oikawa, as if he’s afraid Tooru will vanish even in the second that he blinks.

There’s nothing he can do about the disgusting filth on his thighs, but by the time Iwaizumi deems himself fit to touch Oikawa without dirtying him he’s almost stopped caring, clad in nothing but his boots, the trousers, and an old black shirt with its sleeves torn off and fraying.

Once again he reaches out for Tooru. His hands clasp onto thin shoulders, then move up to caress Oikawa’s pale face, brushing away lank brown hair away from it, uneven and ragged at the edges where Iwaizumi had tried to trim it three weeks back.

“You’re awake.” Iwaizumi says, and his voice cracks. “Tooru, you’re _awake_ \--”

And then he’s pulling Oikawa into his arms, burying his face against Oikawa’s neck, and as he did, Iwaizumi’s unnatural self-possession finally broke. He begins to cry silently, the exhausted, relieved tears of one who’s been lost long, suffered much, and was now, against all odds, finding himself whole again.

 

* * *

 

He presses one palm against the floor beside him for balance when Hajime pulls him in, quiet for a few moments as he listens to Hajime’s breathing, well aware that he’s crying.

“Of course, Iwa-chan,” he says in the most comforting voice he can, trying to hide his confusion — why is he crying? Tooru looks down, eyes instantly fixing on a dark bruise on Hajime’s upper arm hanging over his own shoulder. The bruise looks too big to be anything volley-related, and from what it looks like, with _all_ of Hajime’s injuries seemingly spread evenly over his entire body, Tooru really isn’t the one he should be worried about.

"Iwa-chan, you look—“ _like shit,_ he thinks, but for once he doesn’t say it out loud. For once he actually means it too. He reaches his hand up, resting it at Hajime’s nape before sliding it up further, carding it through Hajime’s hair, trying to ignore the dried blood and filth in it, not wanting to confront him about the horrible state he’s in while he’s _crying_ into Tooru’s shoulder, a situation Tooru isn’t quite used to being in. So he continues, slowly carding his fingers through Hajime’s hair, because that’s what he likes the best when he needs comforting, while wondering just how to ask Hajime what the hell is up with his face and the bloodied clothes on the floor. He really doesn’t want to get into why there are _weapons_ there just yet though.

"What’s wrong, how long was I out for, two whole weeks or something?" He ask with a light laughter, hoping it’ll distract Hajime, if just slightly.

Whatever treatment he went through, he probably shouldn’t be surprised that it weakened his body. Now that he’s not alone in the room, it feels slightly less gloomy, like a normal hospital room. The only thing out of place, really, is Hajime, beaten up and bloodied, _armed,_ but just his presence in this foreign room is too much of a comfort for Tooru to want to break the tiny sense of normalcy that has returned since he recognized Hajime.

What’s really weird is the fact that _Hajime_ isn’t being treated for his injuries, and that there’s still no doctors here to check up on Tooru.

He tries not to look at the bloodied weapons on the floor, the thing that looks a bit too much like a bulletproof vest, and tries to think of more normal stuff. What is he supposed to do now that he’s awake again? His arm is already sore from just holding it up, just _patting_ Hajime’s hair, and even though all of his muscle mass isn’t gone — thank god — he was supposed to be getting _stronger_ this offseason, not have a major setback. "I have to start training again instantly if I want to have any chance at starting this season's championships as a regular—“ he says in one breath, thinking out loud, half to get Hajime on other thoughts, half panicking over his own athletic career. He bites his lip, wondering why there _still_ hasn’t been anyone to check up on him, why anyone would let someone in Hajime’s condition run through a hospital. “We should call for a doctor, I think you need—we should get you some help.”

 

* * *

 

It’s wonderful hearing Tooru speak again. For a long while, Iwaizumi simply rests his forehead against Oikawa as his words wash over him, focusing on nothing except the sound of Tooru’s voice and his fingers through his hair.

The more he listens, however, the heavier his heart becomes. When Oikawa mentions championships -- god, Iwaizumi hasn’t even _thought_ about volleyball since day 0 -- a physical pang shoots through him, and as Iwaizumi pulls back, he finds he’s unable to look Oikawa in the eye.

Oikawa is the last remnant of days gone by. He’s a ghost, still living in the past, and Iwaizumi curses that he must now be the one to take away that innocence, to lead Oikawa over the terrible threshold between the past and the present. He tries to put himself where Oikawa still is: when things like careers and grades and _volleyball_ still mattered, when being in this foreign country was an adventure instead of being stranded, when his hands had never known the heft of a gun shooting to kill, when -- instead of a bane that kept corpses more active than if they’d been in the cold-- sunlight felt good to feel on one’s face.

Freeze this frame.

Now call down your dark and your cold and be damned.

Iwaizumi’s hands drop, one of them catching Tooru’s wrist gently to still it.

“Oikawa.” he interrupts, cutting across Tooru’s suggestion, more brusquely than he’d intended. When he realises his harshness, his voice softens a little… but he still can’t look Tooru in the eye. “Let’s not-- I mean, don’t--”

He swallows. “Just. Never mind that for now, okay?” he almost pleads. He gets painfully to his feet, disregarding the wave of dizziness to hold out a hand to Oikawa, intending to lead him back to the bed. With his free hand, he hurriedly presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, wiping away the dampness for good.

“First things first. How are you feeling?”

He’s stalling, dragging it out, digging his heels in a cowardly effort to avoid shattering Oikawa’s world just yet. Iwaizumi knows he’s just prolonging the inevitable, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to let this Oikawa go; this new world took good people, _innocent_ people, and broke them with savage brutality, thrust them past a point of no return in ways crueler than any Iwaizumi had ever imagined.

This may be the last time Oikawa’s ever able to care about volleyball again, and Iwaizumi can’t take that away from him. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

Tooru’s eyes widen in surprise for a second as he looks up at Hajime, but he quickly figures that it’s not out of the ordinary for Hajime to be more worried about his condition than his own state. Yet, when his eyes land on Hajime’s still swollen left eye, he can’t help but grimace, feeling _annoyance_ of all things flare up inside him when he realizes that Hajime plans on focusing on Tooru’s condition rather than himself, even when he’s obviously struggling with just standing up straight. Tooru looks down at the hand held out again, but ignores it in favor of helping himself up instead, using the nearest table leg as leverage to get up, this time much easier than when he had first fallen right after getting out of bed.

“Great, I’m great!” he says lightly, turning around to face Hajime, forcing up a smile so wide he feels the muscles in his cheeks strain, and the headache returns tenfold now that he’s standing up again. “My head hurts so bad I feel like I just woke up from a coma or something,” he adds jokingly, letting Hajime lead him back towards the bed. He places a hand on the edge of the mattress instead of sitting down, still keeping his smile wide — he’s already feeling marginally better, but he’ll have to put on a better act if he wants Hajime to stop worrying and focus on his goddamn self for once. “But apart from that—I’ll probably get discharged within a day, don’t you think?” He’s only partly doing this, trying to play down how shitty he feels for Hajime’s sake. He obviously does need to be taken care of more than Tooru does, but Tooru also knows that he’d probably put up a fight if Tooru tries to start training instantly after being discharged, but Tooru has no idea how much he has missed, how far behind this hospital visit has put him, and he wasn’t lying about wanting to stay as a regular. He’ll have to put in some intense practice sessions from the start if he wants any chance at catching up with the team. Like hell he’s going to let some stupid virus ruin that for him—the virus. He has no clue about whether or not it has spread, but he can only assume that, since he’s alive and well, the cure has been found.

He lets his eyes wander to the side again, unable to stare at anything but Hajime’s left eye when he looks at his face, and instead his eyes land on the bloodied clothes on the floor, then the weapons. His smile falters instantly, replaced by a worried frown as he looks up at Hajime again, once again taking in his beaten face, the frayed clothes.

Tooru knows he has a pretty colorful imagination, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make up a single logical explanation for it all. His frown deepens as he tries to force himself from staring at Hajime’s swollen eye, instead going for actual eye contact as he inhales slowly. “Iwa-chan—what’s going on?”

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi sighs when Oikawa refuses the proffered hand, seeing through Oikawa’s act almost instantly. He can”t believe that after all these years Tooru still thinks he can pull the wool over Iwaizumi’s eyes, but some things never change, he guesses. And honestly? Instead of the usual irritation, all he feels right now is fondness for the familiar as he maneuvers Oikawa over to the bed. Knowing Oikawa and knowing himself, this leniency is probably only temporary, but it’s not as if Iwaizumi’s in a hurry to hasten it either.

Oikawa doesn’t sit down, so Iwaizumi frowns and sits him down for him, pushing Tooru gently but firmly back onto the bed.

Something closes his throat, making it difficult to speak as he stares back at his best friend, wondering just how on earth is he supposed to answer him. He knows Oikawa well enough to guess what’s going through his head: his renewed training regimen, his convictions and hopes for the upcoming championship, how he’s going to work thrice as hard to make up for lost time.

Iwaizumi’s heart aches. In the end, he begins with the only thing he can think to say.

“I’m sorry, Tooru.” he says quietly, and Iwaizumi doesn’t know it, but his eyes are sad. “You’ve been asleep for three months, almost four.”

He swallows, trying to find the right words, but there are no right words, not for this, and he stumbles across them like a blind man over uneven ground. “Things aren’t what you remember. The virus… it spread into a pandemic. Last I heard, it’s infected most of this country.”

Iwaizumi looks away, remembering what he’d overhead as he interned in the labs. “Ninety-six point four of the population dead, to be exact.” he whispers.

He pauses then. He doesn’t know how to say that all the lines are down, every broadcast sent into dead air, all borders closed and contact with other countries ceased. He doesn’t know how to tell Oikawa that the last news he’d heard from Japan was that Tokyo was under martial law, the entire country was on lockdown, and that dead bodies were being burned. He doesn’t know how to tell Oikawa that he has no idea what’s happened to their families and their friends, and that that’s not even the worst part.

Ninety-six point four of the population dead… but still walking.

 

* * *

 

When the words hit him, Tooru’s throat constricts around nothing and he has to press his lips together to stop from choking on air. He raises his hand, his mind on the bottle of water from before, but instead of leaning over the bed to grab it, he simply reaches for the hem of Hajime’s shirt, holding onto it tightly, as if Hajime’s presence is the one thing keeping him grounded, reminding him that this is real, that he’s really awake — apparently for the first time in almost _four months_.

“But—but I’m alive? They know how to cure it then, and—“ the number echoes in his mind, as if he only now registers it. _Over ninety-six percent_. He doesn’t remember the exact population size of the country, and Hajime hadn’t even said it was only—

“Pandemic, you said? What about—what about our families?” he asks, eyes fixed on Hajime’s face to see his reaction to the question. His memories are slowly getting clearer — his mom’s worry when he had been admitted to the hospital, the only thing that could calm her down being Tooru repeatedly reminding her that Iwa-chan was there with him, that Iwa-chan wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

He looks up at Hajime’s face again, fighting the urge to reach up and touch it, slide his thumb over the drying blood on his lower lip. He’s reminded of the weapons again, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Hajime’s face, wondering how to ask him about it. Are the remaining soldiers fighting each other? What on earth does he need weapons for? What _happened_ to him?

He’s immensely relieved that at least he isn’t alone in a strange country, but then reminded that _Hajime_ has been, apparently for over three months. He looks to the door again, figuring that no doctor will come to check up on him, to help with Hajime’s injuries. There probably hasn’t been anyone to look out for him in a long time, meaning… there’s a very likely chance that Hajime has been the one keeping him alive all this time. He feels another wave of nausea hit him, this time mostly out of guilt. Hajime looks like a completely different person, and with most of the population dead, Tooru can’t even begin to imagine what he must’ve seen during the last few months. He can’t really change the past or make up for the lost time, but he _really_ can’t sit here and watch Hajime look back at him with such a pained expression either, especially when just _looking_ at his injuries makes _Tooru_ feel physically hurt. It doesn’t matter what happened while Tooru was—while he was gone. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to see that expression on Hajime’s face any longer.

“Hey, Iwa-chan. We’re at a hospital, right? We should try and find something to help with your injuries,” he says, clutching the fabric of Hajime’s shirt tighter before he pushes himself down from the bed again with his other hand, only now noticing the limited space between Hajime and the bed. He leans up against it again, letting go of Hajime’s shirt.

“Aren’t you hungry too? I’m famished, like I haven’t eaten in—“ he stops himself mid-ramble before he can finish the joke, figuring it hits a bit too close to the truth, “haha, never mind.”

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi’s hand covers Tooru’s instinctively, but he can only shake his head at his questions, dropping his gaze quickly as if he can hide his anguish from his own best friend. “I’m sorry,” he says again, trying to keep hoarseness from his voice. “There’s been no contact from Japan, from anywhere at all. I-I don’t know anything, Tooru.”

He can’t bring himself to say that there’s a very real possibility ( _probability_ ) that they’re never going to see their homeland again. That could come later. No need to put Oikawa through all of it at once.

“All I know is that the coma kept you alive,” he manages to say. “for whatever reason, it stopped the infection targeting you once you were put on the ventilator. If it hadn’t…”

Well, that was exactly why Iwaizumi had done all he could to keep him alive, wasn’t it? He couldn’t let Tooru die and come back like _that_. He just... _couldn’t_.

A soft smile crosses his face at the sound of his old nickname, but the action splits the scab on his mouth and it starts bleeding afresh. Wincing, he reaches up touch his eye gingerly. Truth be told, he’d completely forgotten about them in light of Oikawa’s awakening. Even now he’s still reeling a bit, but now that Oikawa mentions them, all the physical hurts that he’s been ignoring clamour to make themselves known again. Every deep bruise, every ache from his overstrained muscles, his eye, his lip, the gunshot graze on his thigh… and the new aching bump on his head, courtesy of Tooru.

He lifts his hand from Oikawa’s and runs it affectionately through Oikawa’s hair, ruffling it. “Okay, okay. I’ve been keeping an emergency cache of food and supplies here, I’ll go get it. Now sit down, dammit. _Sit._ ” he adds sternly as he moves away. “You’ve just woken from a _coma_. Save your strength.”

As he moves around the room, nudging the stained armour and gas mask into a corner and slinging the machete in its sheath back over his shoulder, Iwaizumi pauses as he passes by the bed again. It’s not until now that he sees the discarded IV lines, and at the sight of them, he scowls down at his friend. Why was it that the first reaction of patients was to pull them out? Did they see it in a movie? He bet they did. Fucking Hollywood.

“Oikawa, you idiot, don’t pull things that lead directly into your bloodstream out like that.” He reaches for Oikawa’s hands, then stops himself for the second time that day and grimaces at the sight of his own grimy ones. There’s no way he can re-insert the IVs with them in this state, he’ll just get the wounds infected.

“Wait here.” he orders. After a moment’s hesitation, Iwaizumi picks up the gun and carries it over to Oikawa. forcibly pressing it into his hand, making him feel the heft of it.

“This is a-- shit, what’s the name again-- uh... Heckler and… something USP. It’s German or something, I don’t remember what it stands for.” Iwaizumi checks the magazine, then pulls back the slide and cocks the gun, all in two smooth, practiced motions. “This is the safety. On,” he flicks it up for demonstration, then flicks it back down. “and off. Thumb the hammer back to shoot, but don’t keep your finger on the trigger before you aim it at someon-- something.”

He steps back, brow furrowed. “I don’t think you’ll need it while we’re here, but. Just in case.”

With the most important thing out of the way, Iwaizumi heads towards the door, already going through his mental checklist. Food, medical supplies, a fresh change of clothes for both of them. New IV bags for Oikawa...and another weapon too, for close quarters. Amongst other things.

“I’ll knock before I open the door.” he says over his shoulder, sliding his machete out of the sheath. “Four times, fast, then once.” His expression turns grim. “If you hear anything trying to come in without knocking, I want you to keep that gun aimed at the door, and to shoot whatever comes through. _Don’t_. _Hesitate_. Aim for the head.”

Past the doorway, he stops, looking back at Oikawa. Another small smile slips through, softening Iwaizumi’s features.

“Be back soon,” he promises, and closes the door, pulling it securely shut. Before he heads down the dark hallway, he pulls the empty stretcher in front of Room 401, blocking it.


	4. waiting

Tooru’s first instinct is to reach out and stop Hajime before he leaves, to make him stay and, preferably, never leave Tooru alone in this strange country. Half out of pride, he suppresses the urge, not wanting to show weakness even after he just woke up from a coma, but also because he really doesn’t have the right. Hajime has been surviving without him for so long, he can wait a little while longer.

Plus, he really is hungry. He’s less dizzy and the nausea is barely an issue now that he’s sitting down again, but he can still _feel_ how tired his body is, not just the muscle aches but the lack of energy too.

He hears Hajime pull something out in front of the door, blocking it from the outside, and stares back down at the gun in his hand. He had actually been more focused on Hajime’s voice as he explained how it was used, almost clinical, too damn _practiced,_ like he had been handling one his entire life. The gun is actually lighter than he had expected, but the weight is still oddly heavy in his hand, and he puts it down next to him carefully, as if the smallest wrong move could set it off. He snorts at the idea of Hajime returning to Tooru having shot himself in the leg or something equally stupid, figuring that Hajime wouldn’t find the idea as amusing as Tooru does. The state he’s in is probably enough of a problem as it is, he thinks, turning to look back at the IVs Hajime had commented on, scoffing at the sight of the thick needles that had been _inside him_ , now discarded on the nightstand next to the bed.

He leans back onto the bed again, trying to assess the situation. He’s still pretty sure Hajime is in a worse state than himself, which should probably worry him — after three months of coma, he should probably not be able to walk, even if it had proved to be a feat for him. It shouldn’t be hard, it should be practically impossible. He had gotten considerably thinner too, but nothing compared to what he would’ve expected from being bedridden for that long. He should be weaker than this.

He hates waiting around, but Hajime obviously knows more about the situation right now than he does, about the hospital too, it seems. Once again he’s reminded of the very likely possibility that Hajime has been the one taking care of him for all this time. He has no idea how he would _know_ how to do those things, but, well, he has time to find out about all that now that he’s awake.

He reaches down for the gun, lifting it up into his hands and giving it a proper look this time. He slides a finger over the safety, not flicking it on like Hajime had done to demonstrate, before holding it up like people do in the movies, making sure not to touch the trigger, just like Hajime had said. He aims it at the door, remembering Hajime’s words. Aim for the head.

Swallowing, he puts the gun down next to him again, shaking his head. He’s not sure he wants to know what Hajime meant by that, but he _really_ wants him to come back as soon as possible. Instead, he turns his attention back to his own body, reaching down and beginning to massage his legs, like he’s been taught to do after particularly rough training sessions, hoping that it’ll have at least some effect. He tries not to think of anything else except waiting for Hajime’s return.


	5. return

The next hour and twenty minutes are quite possibly the most careful and cautious that Iwaizumi’s ever been in his entire life. He’s used to taking calculated risks; it’s what makes him an excellent scavenger in the first place, the willingness and daring to go through with plans that oftentimes had high risks with high rewards.

Now, as he traverses the hallways that are as familiar to him as the back of his hand, he goes nowhere that doesn’t have a window in the walls to allow light in, rifles through no room before he’s scouted out its darkest corner. Every dead body he comes across he puts his machete through an eye socket without question, then cuts the head off just to be absolutely safe.

He isn’t going to let a single walker get close to Oikawa. Not while Tooru’s still recovering. Not while this hospital is _theirs_ , and if that means taking as little risks as possible to keep himself safe and therefore alive and therefore able to protect Tooru, or decapitating every single damn corpse in this place, so be it.

First, he heads towards the safe in the office of the medical director. The locking mechanism is broken but the safe itself is hidden behind a portrait, and it’s where Iwaizumi has kept the items most important to him: Oikawa’s remaining IV bags (he startles when he pulls out the remaining ones; there’s only three left, and he breaks out into a sweat just thinking about the consequences if Oikawa hadn’t woken), a few unopened bottles of water, several letters he’d written at various points during the last hundred days, and finally, filling up more than half the safe, enough canned food to last them for twenty whole days, perhaps a little more if Iwaizumi tightened his belt (which he is going to do, of course. Oikawa needs it more than he does.)

This is the stash that Iwaizumi’s been adding to every time he’s gone out on a supply run; if the town knew he’d been taking his own cut, they’d renounce him for sure, run him out of the community. He’s felt his share of guilt for doing this behind his companions’ backs; but right now, every single scrap of remorse is blown clean away at the thought that Oikawa getting actual food.

He scoops the entire contents of the safe onto the most convenient thing lying around: a janitor’s cart, upturned in the hallway. When he empties out the contents to make space, he even finds an unexpected gift, courtesy of a thieving janitor. Morphine, two bags full. Iwaizumi doesn’t know if it’ll come into use, and he’s wary of its addictive properties, but somehow the idea of having painkillers on hand is a comforting thought. (Iwaizumi doesn’t think of the word _euthanasia_ , but deep in his subconscious, the concept echoed and drifted.) If nothing else, they had the potential to be bargaining chips. Perhaps the bandits back at town would deem them valuable; Iwaizumi knows first hand just how bad a condition some of their gunshot wounds are.

Once he’s loaded every single can and bottle onto the cart, he continues through the safe areas of the hospital with renewed vigour. The south wing he doesn’t even bother going to: the main doors to that part of the hospital he’d securely chained off long ago, having not had the time to thoroughly clear it of every threat. It’s a shame, because that’s where the cafeteria and kitchens are, but now that Oikawa is awake, Iwaizumi feels renewed hope flowing through him. Once Tooru regained his strength, they could secure the place together, gain access to the kitchen storerooms. They wouldn’t have to worry about food for _months_.

He gives himself five minutes to calm down from his own hype before resuming his careful progression. Once he’s calm again, he raids the changing stations, and ends up lugging another trolley behind him, this time filled with fresh towels, containers of hand soap he’d pried off bathroom walls, a carton of rubbing alcohol, clean scrubs, and almost two-thirds of the clothes from the hospital locker.

(He’s not proud of that last deed-- his mother’s always taught him that theft was wrong, but Oikawa needs proper clothes, Iwaizumi’s own shirt is fast becoming a threadbare rag, and the owners of these clothes are unlikely to come back for them anyway. Still, he murmurs an apology aloud as he leaves.)

The rest of his round goes smoothly as well. He doesn’t go into the laboratories, but he makes a note of their location, knowing Oikawa would want to use the emergency shower station in there once he was strong enough to make the trip. After going through the clothes of several bodies, he finds a pocketknife, still sharp.

By the time Iwaizumi heads back towards Room 401, he almost feels bad for being in such high spirits in this dead, dark hospital. Certainly his mood doesn’t match his surroundings, but he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this _hopeful_ , and… and it feels _good._

For the first time, the prospect of the immediate future doesn’t fill him with dread and doubt and worry and fear. For the first time in months, he feels alive.

Still, he doesn’t let down his guard until he’s outside Oikawa’s room once more, the journey back made that much longer by his care in keeping as quiet as possible while towing around two heavy carts filled to the brim.

Iwaizumi pushes the stretcher away, then raps on the door five times. Four quick successions, followed by one knock.

“Oikawa,” he calls softly through the door. “It’s me.”

He’s not exactly smiling as he wheels the fruits of his findings into the room; smiles don’t come as easily to him as they once did nowadays, but there’s a marked difference in his demeanour all the same. He’s still tired and still in pain, but as Iwaizumi closes the door and places the dead ventilator machine in front of it as a rudimentary barrier, he doesn’t look like he’s bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore.

He pushes both trolleys over to Oikawa’s bedside, shifting them so Oikawa can rifle through them to his heart’s content.

“Not bad, huh? Oh, and--” He takes out the pocketknife, holds it out to Oikawa. “For you. Long range weapons are good,” he jerks his head at the gun. “But close-range ones are _essential_.”

Before Oikawa can ask him to clarify what the means, he changes the subject, not wanting to broach that topic as of yet. As Iwaizumi pulls out a towel, a set of clean scrubs, and a container of hand soap, he says aloud, almost in wonderment. “I can’t remember the last time I used a washroom for actual washing, where a shower didn’t mean just running out into pouring rain.”

He raises a meaningful eyebrow at Oikawa. “There’s no shower in here, but there’s one in the labs. We’ll go once you’re strong enough, yeah?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru had almost dozed off while Hajime was gone, growing tired of just sitting up and massaging his legs after a little while, but he pushes himself up to sit instantly at Hajime’s return, raising his arms over his head to stretch his back despite how his body protests, watching Hajime enter the room once more. He notices the shift in his demeanor, a change for the better, his steps seeming a bit lighter, but far heavier than it used to be, but that could simply be because Hajime’s own injuries. Tooru feels bad about letting Hajime go pick up all the things himself, but he knows he wouldn’t really be of much help in this state. It doesn’t stop his guilt, though, but he probably would’ve simply slowed Hajime down.

He accepts the knife without asking or commenting — Hajime’s expression is enough to silence him — turning it in his hand to get a proper feel for it before he puts it down again, wondering what situations he’d need to use such a small pocketknife for. He didn’t want to _harm_ others, not unless necessary, and a knife seemed to be more effective for killing or hurting severely than simply keeping people at a distance. He pushes the thought away for now, returning his attention to the trolleys and eyeing the contents Hajime pulls out.

He lets out a snort at Hajime’s comment about his last actual shower, the next words escaping his lips before he can think twice about them. “Oh yeah, that’s obvious from just looking at you—or even worse, your smell,” he jokes, reaching up to pinch his own nose as if the stench is _that_ insufferable, but then he remembers himself, leaning his head down and raising one arm, trying to discreetly sniff under his own armpit, grimacing slightly. He could definitely use a shower too — but it didn’t smell like he hadn’t touched a washcloth or water in the last _three months._ Once again he can’t help but wonder if Hajime had been the one making sure of that, taking care of him for all this time. He imagines Hajime washing his unconscious body, keeping him presentable, even if he wasn’t sure if Tooru would ever wake up. He reaches his hand up, carding it through his hair out of habit, but freezes when he notices how short it still is too. He grabs a lock with the tips of his fingers, sliding them over the ends as his expression changes to one of horror, realising how… choppy it feels, like it’s been cut bluntly, and that’s not even mentioning how lank it feels.

He leans forward, but stops himself before he can start looking through the carts for conditioner, figuring that Hajime wouldn’t have grabbed some even if he found a bottle — it wasn’t really high on the list of things needed for survival, and Hajime had never given much care to Tooru’s hair routine.

Yet, now that Tooru is aware, he can’t help but feel slightly self-conscious, and still oddly embarrassed about the idea of Hajime having taken care of him while he was in a coma. He turns his eyes downwards, figuring that he’s probably still too pale for the burn in his cheeks to be obvious just yet, before he remembers what Hajime had said about the possibility of a shower.

“I’m strong enough,” he says instantly, leaning forward with determination again, grabbing the side of one of the trolleys. “We’re safe in the hospital right? I can definitely manage to walk through a few hallways,” he says with a smile, still unaware of the real danger. Actually, just the thought itself exhausts him, and he isn’t _completely_ sure he could do it right away, both going all the way to where the showers are and then actually showering. Of course, he could ask Hajime to help him with the showering part, but… knowing Hajime, he’d either roll up a towel and smack him with it or — even worse — _actually_ help him with the shower. There’s a huge difference between Hajime helping him stay alive while he’s unconscious and Hajime helping him with basic stuff like _showering_ now that he’s actually awake. But if Tooru could survive his university entrance exams after being awake for over 48 hours, living on nothing but milk bread, the one meat bun Hajime had forced him to eat, and Pocari Sweat, he can definitely do this walk and shower himself without fainting with exhaustion. He’s basically been sleeping for over three months, he shouldn’t be this… this _tired._

His stomach growls and he reaches up to press a hand against it instantly, hoping that Hajime didn’t notice, before he turns his attention to the contents of the carts again, his eyes focusing on the food. It’s mostly American stuff — no one can be picky in times of crisis, he thinks — and canned means that it’s still edible, at least. He leans over, reaching down for one of them and pulls it up to wave it in front of Hajime, smiling widely.

“You know what I’d love to have right now? Some coffee — I wish the Americans would learn from us, canned coffee would be _ideal_ right now,” he says, leaning back onto the pillows as casually as possible, can still in hand, hoping Hajime would write it off as getting comfortable, not his back hurting. He raises the can in front of his face as he lies down, turning it around to read the label, humming quietly.

 

* * *

 

Pursing his lips, he watches Oikawa go through a range of emotions that he thinks isn’t obvious to Hajime, like Iwaizumi hasn’t been watching him their whole lives. At this point, he knows every shift and nuance of Oikawa’s features better than his own. Guilt, self-consciousness, mortification, and of course, insistence at keeping up the facade that his body is fine.

Iwaizumi wants to thump him, because if there’s one emotion of his that Iwaizumi is particularly attuned to, it’s any manifestation of Tooru’s pride. Iwaizumi’s vision is almost non-existent in one eye but if Oikawa thinks that made him any less observant, he’s dead wrong. In the end he opts for pinching Oikawa lightly on his thigh, making a mental note to have a talk with him later.

They’re going to have a lot of talks, later.

“You’re not strong enough, _yet_.” he retorts. “Don’t rush it, you’ll end up complicating your recovery.”

He picks up the pocketknife, flicking through the various tools until he finds the can opener.

“I don’t think caffeine would be good for your stomach right now… but you do need fluids.” he muses aloud. He glances over at Oikawa. “What is that? If it’s not soup, then put it back. I’m pretty sure I saw some kind of minestrone in one of the cans.”

In the meantime, he grabs the rubbing alcohol and heads to the washroom to clean the pocketknife properly.

 

* * *

 

Tooru watches Hajime’s back as he goes to the washroom before slowly putting down the can, leaning over so he can go through the rest of the contents until he finds one of the cans with minestrone. He sits back up in the bed, turning it over in his hand as he looks up at the door to the washroom, biting his lip. He’s _starving,_ but cold soup directly from a can isn’t the most appetizing meal idea he could come up with either.

He looks down at the label again, and the illustration doesn’t look _too_ bad. His stomach growls again, agreeing with this sentiment.

There’s a bundle of clothes in one of the carts too, and Tooru would very much like to change into something else — the hospital gown is thin and airy, and he feels oddly vulnerable in it. He can’t stop looking down at the dried out blood he had wiped off of his hand on it either whenever he sees it in the corner of his eye — which is often, since it’s quite dark, contrasting the light blue fabric of the hospital gown.

Tooru turns to look up to the door again with a sigh, impatiently wishing for Hajime to return.

“Eat with me, Iwa-chan,” he calls out, loud enough for Hajime to hear, figuring that they have a lot to talk about too as well — mainly, why Hajime had arrived in that state and why on earth Hajime thought they needed weapons. And where Hajime had _found_ those weapons.

He puts down the can, waiting for Hajime’s return, hoping that a talk could shed some light on the whole situation. He knows Hajime is holding back information, and he’s pretty sure Hajime knows just how much Tooru hates being held in the dark. Right now, he really needs to know what they’re up against — almost as much as he needs something to eat.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi rinses off the pocketknife, uses the corner of his towel to disinfect the entire thing, then rinses it off again. Once he’s deemed it fit for use, he sets it aside on the sink, and then looks into the slightly grimy mirror above the sink.

The last time he looked into a reflection has been so long ago that he’s not sure if he’s even actually looked into one since the beginning of the apocalypse. At the sight of his own face, he grimaces, one hand reaching up to finger a lock of dirty hair, longer than he’s used to.

He looks like a stranger, even to himself. It’s not just the busted lip and the swelling around his eye; it’s the look in his eyes, the set of his mouth, his very expression itself. Both weary and wary, almost cold.

Iwaizumi doesn’t care for this stranger at all, even though he knows he’s a survivor.

When Oikawa calls for him, Iwaizumi wrenches his gaze away from the mirror, calling back. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll be right there.”

When he looks back again, his face is set. Determined.

Thirteen minutes later, Iwaizumi steps back out of the bathroom, frowning absently as he runs a hand through clean, wet hair hard enough that it leaves it sticking up in odd places, like ruffled feathers on a disgruntled bird.

The frayed shirt is discarded, as are the stained trousers. They're thrown into a corner of the room, bundled up together in the towel that was clean less than fifteen minutes ago, now thoroughly ruined with all the filth Iwaizumi had scrubbed off himself, something like three weeks of blood and guts and grime. Unlike Oikawa, he doesn't need a proper shower, making do with water from the tap and using the sink as a basin. The soap container had been almost full when he’d taken it. Now, there’s only one-third left.

He makes a beeline towards Oikawa, shifting his shoulders. The scrubs he’d taken to wear had been in a woman’s size medium and now the fabric clung to him, not as comfortable as he’d like, but not enough of a nuisance for him to change out of them. He decides he can live with it. It’s not a big deal, not when a part of him is marveling at the fact that he’s _clean_ , actually properly washed for the first time in forever.

Well, most of him’s clean.

“Son of a fucking bitch.” is what leaves his mouth-- in English; his vocabulary has vastly expanded in that aspect at least-- once he’s taken the can from Oikawa and opened it. Annoyance with himself filters through his voice as he realises what Oikawa already had: that there’s no way to heat up their food. There’s not even utensils they can use.

There isn’t a chair either, so Iwaizumi sits down onto the bed itself, beside Oikawa’s thin thigh. “Sorry.” he says gruffly, handing Tooru the opened can. “Usually I can make a fire, but.”

He eyes the little hospital room, which is very much devoid of any materials for a fire, then looks out the window. It’s very late afternoon now, and the sun set fast once dusk arrived. But it is also still summertime, and the days are long. The sun won’t set for another three hours, if Iwaizumi’s internal clock is accurate. That gives him time to make another fast trip around the corridors.

“I can go look for some candles.” he says, turning back to Tooru. The last thing Iwaizumi wants is to leave him again, ever, but Tooru deserves to have a proper first meal, and fuck if Iwaizumi can’t even manage to do the most basic thing and heat it. (His gaze travels over Oikawa’s thin face, his shoulders, his arms, and another pang runs through him at the sight. Oikawa mentioned something about tending to his own injuries but Iwaizumi honestly couldn’t care less about a few non life-threatening hurts, not when Oikawa’s health takes first priority. Oikawa’s _always_ going to take first priority.)

“But we _can’t_ light them after dark. I don’t suggest leaving the room then, either.” he adds, somberly.

 

* * *

 

When Hajime returns, Tooru’s face lights up in a smile again, and he can _feel_ the tension leave his shoulders again, now that he’s no longer alone.

Now that Hajime is cleaned up, he looks a lot more like himself — it also makes it a lot more obvious for Tooru to see the change, though. Now that he looks like himself again, apart from the injuries, his expression looks even weirder on his face, and the way he carries himself is so oddly unfamiliar that Tooru is taken aback for a moment, up until Hajime sits down on the bed next to him. He tries not to react to Hajime’s swearing — and in English, no less — simply pressing his knees together to make more room, watching as he realises what Tooru had already figured out about being unable to heat it. Tooru looks at the contents of the can, and it doesn’t exactly look _yummy,_ but once again his hunger gets the best of him, and he raises the can to his lip, tilting it and drinking some of the soup from it, making sure to keep his eyes fixed on the far corner of the room, keeping his expression neutral so Hajime won’t see if he dislikes it.

The soup isn’t… _bad_. It’s definitely not meant to be eaten cold, but it’s not horrible either, and it’s _way_ better than the alternative, Hajime leaving him to himself _again_ simply to go looking for some candles so Tooru can eat the soup lukewarm instead of this. Right now, he just wants to eat and not be left alone.

Tooru shakes his head, reaching his hand over to grab Hajime’s hand, but stops himself mid-motion, instead patting his shoulder lightly over the tight fabric.

“No need for a candlelit dinner, Iwa-chan! You already dressed up as a sexy nurse for me, what else could I ask for?” he jokes, eyeing the scrubs with a teasing smile before raising the can closer to Hajime’s mouth, offering the soup to Hajime and urging him to try it too.

 

* * *

 

“I _will_ hit you,” Iwaizumi says dryly, one hand reaching up and contradicting his every word when it closes around Oikawa’s gently, steadying the can and simultaneously supporting it. He makes a show of taking his turn for Oikawa’s sake, but he keeps his lips pressed together and swallows more saliva than soup before he lets go and pushes it towards Tooru again.

He was going to say something else, probably a comment about how it’s a shame Oikawa woke up with his sense of humour intact, but then Iwaizumi shifts. He feels warmth where he and Oikawa come into contact; Iwaizumi’s entire train of thought runs up a wall and out the window, and he’s left just staring at Oikawa like an idiot. He can’t muster up even the pretense of faux-irritation like he’s been doing for years.

 _I fucking missed you,_ he wants to say. _Your smiles, your stupid jokes, your voice, your--_ everything. He wants to reach out and touch Tooru’s face, twist his fingers into Tooru’s hair. He wants to take Tooru into his arms and bury his face against his neck, wants to ki--

He looks away from Oikawa’s mouth, only just realising that his palm is resting on top of Oikawa’s thigh. He moves that away too.

He thinks of the letters he’d taken from the safe, letters to his parents, his friends, to Oikawa’s family, to Oikawa. Shame rises like bile to his throat as he remembers Oikawa’s letter: not because of the contents themselves (frenzied, frantic words he’d penned in a fit of hopelessness and the haphazard confession that came with it) but rather of the memory of what he’d done after he wrote the letter.

It had been three weeks into the apocalypse, and he’d grabbed Tooru’s shoulders and begged him to wake up, _please_ , because Hajime couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t live with the fear of coming back to Room 401 and finding that Tooru had died in his absence, and turned. He’d shaken Oikawa, almost _violently_ , yelled in his face, threatened to leave and never return, that if Oikawa cared for him at all he’d open his eyes, right fucking _now._ When Oikawa continued to lay there, not living, not dead, Iwaizumi’s hands had slid up to cup his face. He’d kissed him, eyes squeezed shut as his tears dripped onto Oikawa’s cheek. He’d pulled away after far too long and left without a backward glance when Oikawa remained as pale and unresponsive as his mouth had been. He'd left Oikawa, and around the campfire that night he'd nodded silently when his very first group of companions told him that he had a place with them, that he should leave with them once the helicopter landed.

Yet when the chopper had come, he had stayed. The excuse was that he had to buy time for the rest of them, to hold off the walkers approaching their camp, and they probably even believed him. They'd tried to pull him up anyway, and Iwaizumi… Iwaizumi had shaken them off. _You'll die,_ they had screamed at him. _No, I won't,_ he'd said, and turned his back on them, feeling the wind from the chopper blades in his hair as he faced the horde with his machete raised. That's when they'd thrown him the gun, and promised they'd come back for him if they could. (They never would.)

His touches had been only clinical since then-- repositioning Oikawa so he didn’t get bed sores, regularly washing him with a damp cloth, putting his limbs through passive movements so his muscles wouldn’t atrophy as quickly-- but still he remembers how he’d acted as disgusting as the prince in that western fairy tale with the sleeping princess. Taking his emotions out on Oikawa, like it was Oikawa’s own fault he was comatose. Blaming Oikawa for keeping Hajime chained to this cursed city, unable to leave when the military helicopter had come. Kissing Oikawa without his consent.

He’s going to tell Oikawa at some point, now that he’s awake. How he’d acted was monstrous and what he’d done was wrong and inappropriate and Oikawa deserves to know. Iwaizumi already violated their trust once; he’s not going to do it again by hiding it.

Still, before that, there’s other things Oikawa should know about first.

“Oikawa,” he says, haltingly, wondering how to start. Maybe it’d be easier to let Oikawa take the lead. “There’s a lot you still don’t know.”

He clears his throat. “So… ask anything. I’ll answer as best as I can.”

 

* * *

 

He gulps down another, bigger mouthful of soup this time, doesn’t take much time to savour the taste, not that it’s that impressive, even though he’s well aware that he should probably feel just a bit nauseous or disgusted by it. He doesn't — he’s still so hungry, and it actually tastes surprisingly okay. Raising it to his lips, he takes another sip, just for good measure, licking his lips as he lowers the can from his mouth again, looking up at Hajime, who doesn’t exactly seem eager to have another taste. Tooru is hungry enough to empty the content of the can in one go probably, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let Hajime skip his own meal simply to make Tooru eat more. He’s not stupid.

A moment later, he realises Hajime’s intent gaze has less to do with the food than Tooru himself. He’s staring. Laughing hoarsely, Tooru looks away, for once not enjoying the attention. He’s already pretty aware of how he looks, too thin and pale, lifeless hair. He can only imagine the horrible state of his skin, the bags under his eyes—

“Stop looking at me like that, not even Oikawa Tooru wakes up from a coma looking amazing, okay?” he says, lifting the can and taking another gulp of cold soup from it to keep himself from adding another comment about still looking better than Hajime, trying to keep himself from staring at the swelling around his left eye, the split lip that, to be fair, now that he’s clean, doesn’t look as bad as it did before.

He offers Hajime the can again, remembering that they’re supposed to share, pursing his lips in consideration, now that Hajime offers to explain and answer all of his questions, wondering what to ask first, where to start.

 _Why do we need weapons? How am I still alive? Do you know anything at all about our families? What happened to_ you _?_ “How did it start?” he asks instead, licking his lips, tasting a stray drop of the tomato soup at the tip of his tongue. “After I went to the hospital?”

 

* * *

 

Looking anywhere but at Oikawa’s mouth, Iwaizumi pointedly doesn’t correct Oikawa’s assumption in thinking that Iwaizumi’s judging his appearance and takes another actual sip of the soup this time, tasting something that's either a potato or a carrot. Ugh. At least it's not cold, just… room temperature-ish.

He shakes his head to indicate that he's had his fill of the soup, for some reason relaxing a little at the question. The answer to this one isn't loaded with conflicting emotions, only two: confusion… and something like fury.

“You remember how they said they were going to try an experimental treatment on you, right? It actually put you into the coma.” Iwaizumi says bluntly. “I don't know if the treatment stopped the infection before it got to you, or if they were just wrong about the diagnosis the entire time, but whatever infected the others didn’t get to you. Otherwise, I’d be more pissed that they didn’t predict the coma happening as a side effect.”

He falls silent for a while before speaking again. “The military sent people here to try and suppress the infection when it got out of hand. They knew this was a research facility as well as a hospital. They knew about the experimental treatments. They knew about the kind of patients this place was accepting.”

Much more quietly, and looking at the wall as if he’s seeing people lined up there and shot, Iwaizumi says, “They murdered everyone involved in the research, patients included. I was there. I heard it.”

He clenches his fists to stop them trembling. “Tooru, I couldn’t stop them at all. They were shooting down anyone who even tried to talk to them. I ran here and I pulled you out of bed and into the bathroom. I thought they’d investigate a closed door, so I left both of them open and…”

And he’d held Oikawa’s limp body tightly to himself and leaned against the tiles in between the space of door and wall, eyes fixed on the silhouette of the doorway, teeth bared in a snarl as he listened to the sound of gunfire and screams echoing through the corridors. He had been shaking then, too, but not just with fear. More than that, more than anything, he’d been _furious._ At the barbarism of this government, at the fact that had Iwaizumi not been there, Oikawa would have died in cold blood, without even being able to lift a finger to defend himself, and that it would have happened under a jurisdiction that had promised Oikawa it would help him.

“... and I was right. They didn’t come in here at all.” If they had, Hajime would have killed them, or died trying. Of this he has no doubt.

“I waited until it was quiet, and then I closed the door to the room. I hooked you back up to the machines, blocked the door, and waited some more. I figured it was safe to come out after thirty-nine hours.”

He stares at nothing, fists still clenched. One good thing about the massacre was that the soldiers had known exactly how to put down a walker, which meant that when Iwaizumi cleaned out the place, he’d only had to deal with stragglers that had wandered in through the hospital doors from the outside, and the odd hospital staff/patient that the soldiers had missed. That, and some of the soldiers had died in the chaos as well; they’d left weapons behind, weapons Iwaizumi had been able to find uses for.

“That’s how I remember it starting.” he tells Oikawa, almost dully. “Before that, it was just news coming in from all over the country about rising death tolls and increasingly violent riots, about martial law coming into effect. Conflicting reports from the media and government agencies about what was going on. Shit like that. And then it just… stopped. No one left alive to keep anything running.”

Iwaizumi pauses then, and the muted anger in him dies down as he looks Oikawa in the eye.

“The last time your mom talked to me was about three days before the massacre.” he says quietly. “Internet’s gone now, and the power’s down from everywhere, but I sent her messages on LINE telling everything that happened up until my phone died.”

“Tooru… she never read any of my messages.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru’s appetite disappears instantly at Hajime’s words, and he puts the can down on the bedside table, out of his sight.

“It’s—we don’t know what’s going on, Japan’s disease control is better than in the US, right? So maybe they’re—“ he stops his ramble, unable to finish the sentence, looking down at his hands. “We don’t know,” he finally settles for, simply repeating his own words, before, pushing himself up from where he’s sitting, only to move a few inches closer to Hajime, pressing himself up against his side and reaching out to grab Hajime’s arm for comfort — he’s not sure who of them he’s trying to soothe, Hajime or himself, but it instantly calms him, and he realises how touch-starved he is, as if his body, unlike his mind, is aware that he hasn’t been with other people for so long. He pushes away any thought of their home, of what could or could not have happened to their loved ones, almost finding comfort in not knowing, instead focusing on Hajime’s recollection of what had happened at the hospital.

The story, horrible as it is, explains the weapons and Hajime’s wariness. Tooru thinks he understands Hajime’s actions a bit more now, why he was so determined about the two of them being armed and laying low, probably the reason why he mentioned not wanting to light candles after dark.

Tooru can’t begin to understand what Hajime has seen, what he’s been through while Tooru was gone, but now he feels like he understands a bit more why Hajime would be scared of the military returning, even though it’s unlikely. Especially now that the number of survivors is so low anyway, now that they’ve already been through the hospital once. Tooru doesn’t really see why Hajime would _still_ fear their return, but he figures that Hajime has reasons, and, if not, he can’t blame him for being shaken by the experience. Tooru feels helpless, seeing him going through a full range of emotions, as if experiencing the memory all over again, trying to hold them back as he tells the story, obviously still affected.

“Thank you, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says quietly, sliding his hand down and stroking his thumb over the back of Hajime’s hand, wanting to grab it but well aware that Hajime rarely accepts overt attempts at comforting. “For saving my life,” — not just by pulling him out of sight when the military attacked, but by staying with him, caring for him. Tooru can’t say this out loud just yet, but his mind keeps circling back to it. He pulls his hand back and grabs the can of soup again before Hajime can ask him to finish up, raising it to his lips.

“But now that the military has been here it’s fairly unlikely that they’ll return,” he says, looking down into the can at the floating lumps of whatever vegetables are in there. He’d probably enjoy the taste if it was heated. “We should be safe, right?” he asks, eyeing the gun near them again, feeling kind of silly about being so weirded out by its presence, but then he remembers how Hajime had looked when he had entered his room for the first time after Tooru woke up, covered in—Tooru isn’t sure he wants to know. This time, he puts the can down to the side with finality.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi’s guilt at forcing himself on Oikawa back then courses through him whenever he looks at Tooru now, but he’s not strong enough to stop himself leaning back against Tooru when he presses against him, trying to give back comfort as much as he can, as best as he can. _I’m horrible_ , he thinks, even as he closes his eyes and rests his head against Oikawa’s shoulder, the tension slowly leaving his own the longer he feels Tooru’s warmth against him. He’s glad he’d washed; not because he’s clean for his own sake, but because now he can be physically close to Tooru without dirtying him.

Words can’t describe the immeasurable comfort Oikawa’s presence brings; it’s only in the light of Tooru’s regained consciousness that Iwaizumi now realises the extent of his own loneliness these past few months. It’s only now, with Oikawa filling it once again, that Iwaizumi realises there’d been an aching void in him all this time.

His lips twitch in a half-smile at Oikawa’s thanks. “You’ve saved mine,” his lips move, but no sound issues forth.

Safe. Iwaizumi’s smile fades. He doesn’t think he believes in the meaning of that word anymore, not in any permanent sense.

“I was running from bandits when I came here today,” he tells Oikawa, not lifting his head. “I think they would have killed me six days ago if I wasn’t what counts for a paramedic nowadays.”

Unconsciously, he touches a hand to his eye. He’s glad Oikawa can't see the state of his torso, giant mottled patches of purple and blue and yellow over where he’d been kicked so many times it still comes as a shock that they hadn't managed to fracture any if his ribs. “They killed my people, took over the town… so I knocked out my guard and left.”

“Oikawa…” Iwaizumi lifts his head, gaze flickering to the gun as well. He picks it up, turning it over and over in his hands.

“They're only half a day’s journey away on foot. They have vehicles.”

The gun stops turning, held in fingers so tight his knuckles whiten. “They have enough people and firepower to take this place if they wanted to. I don't think they'd come after me if they knew I was coming here-- but if they think I ran for help, that's a different story.”

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath. “They're not the sort to keep anyone who's of no use to them around. If they follow my trail here, to _you--”_

Something in his chest tightens. Iwaizumi can _feel_ his breaths starting to come faster, and he forces himself to calm down. He had a night’s head start on any pursuers, and no one back in town knew of the hospital's existence because it was right in the outskirts of the red zone south of town. If they were searching for him, they would think he'd ran in any direction except here.

But it's not as if Iwaizumi had been able to hide his progress through to this place, and a trail of beheaded walkers was an obvious trail as any. They'd figure it out, sooner or later.

There's still time. But for how long? Oikawa needed at least a week before he could travel, probably two.

“Fuck.” Iwaizumi says, quietly. His hands reach up to knead at his eyes as he tries to think of a plan, of where to go from here. “ _Fuck.”_

 

* * *

 

Tooru inhales deeply, leaning in against Hajime when he rests against him too, unable to hold back a small smile until Hajime continues speaking. Hajime hasn’t just fought to keep Tooru alive, but also himself, and even though he obviously isn’t telling Tooru the whole story, Tooru’s mind fills in the blanks helpfully. He’s watched the military slaughter most of the people at the hospital, then watched these bandits kill … whoever he was with before that, and Tooru has no idea what he has had to do to survive, while Tooru was just lying here.

“Iwa-chan is a paramedic? Did your experience in patching up team injuries really prepare you that well for, uh, all this,” he says, asking more as a distraction than out of actual curiosity, figuring that in times of crisis, people would be desperate to keep anyone who knows first aid around. Anyone who could be of help.

And Tooru knows what Hajime means with being of use — if he was deemed worthy of keeping alive, maybe Hajime would get a second chance at survival, but even that was unlikely after he had run away from them. But Tooru? He’s still weak, he doesn’t have any life-saving information or talents that could be relevant for anyone’s survival in this situation, and right now he barely counts as someone who could help with any form of physical labor. Tooru would just be another mouth to feed, more of a hindrance than a help.

He turns to look at Hajime, reaching his hand up to grab around Hajime’s left wrist, pulling at it gently, an attempt to stop Hajime from touching his swollen eye too much.

“Hey, Iwa-chan, it’s—it’s fine, I’ll get stronger soon enough, and then we can move on to somewhere safer, okay?”

He gives Hajime he most reassuring smile he can, before reaching his other hand up to cover his mouth as he stifles back a yawn, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels exhausted, like he’s been running a marathon, and he barely even walked around. The soup definitely helped, but now he also feels heavier and oddly sluggish. He leans in against Hajime again, resting some of his weight against his side before he remembers that Hajime is injured. He straightens his back to not put pressure on him, but doesn’t lean out of Hajime’s space, enjoying the warmth. He turns his head to the side in an attempt at burying his face in Hajime’s hair, but it feels _different,_ not just because it’s wet and smells like a different soap than what Tooru is used to, it’s also longer than what he’s used to. “I want to take a shower tomorrow. Maybe you can even teach me how to shoot with that thing,” he says, looking down at the gun.

He’s feeling oddly touchy, and he’s well aware that Hajime is going to push him off sooner or later like he usually does when Tooru becomes too much, but he’s feeling risky anyway — maybe Hajime will take pity on him because he’s still recovering, or maybe he needs it as much as Tooru does. “Did you miss me while I was gone? I bet you did,” he teases, leaning back to grin at Hajime, raising an eyebrow as if challenging him to deny it.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like Iwaizumi’s fears and worries are assuaged-- theres too much at stake for him to relax completely-- but he is pulled back from that place his mind goes to so often nowadays: that place where he starts counting his losses and stops seeing people as people. Where all he knows is that he must protect himself to protect Oikawa, and anyone getting in the way of that is going to _lose._

He lets Oikawa tug his hand down, sighing. At the mention of their old team, he feels another pang, sharp and fresh. “Yeah,I’ll teach you. All the first aid courses I took outside my usual classes isn’t going to stop you shooting yourself in the foot or something equally stupid anyway, so, might as well.”

He shivers a little at Oikawa’s proximity, at Oikawa _nuzzling_ him, and to stop himself pressing his lips against Oikawa’s temple he stands up and retrieves the rubbing alcohol from the bathroom.

“And of course I missed you,” he mutters without any semblance of denial or hesitation when he returns. He’s still stunned at the turn of events this day has taken, and doesn’t have the energy to muster up anything except the honest truth. He takes Tooru’s hands and sterilises the surface of his skin before he re-inserts the IV needles. He replaces the IV bag as well, pushing the carts away from the side of the bed to make space for its stand. “and I’ll say it as much as you want, so quit trying to provoke me into it.”

He also takes the emptied can of soup, frowning at the uneaten chunks of vegetable at the bottom, but sets it aside as well. The machete and gun are placed on and leaned against the bedside table for easy access, the door double-checked to be properly blocked.

Outside, the light is dimming. Rays of soft yellow and red spread across the sky, turning the clouds a deep, beautiful blue and colouring Oikawa’s hair an even lighter, almost pink shade of brown through the uncovered window. Lit like this, just the two of them in their own little pocket of haven hidden away from the world, it almost feels peaceful, like humanity _isn’t_ eating itself alive outside these walls.

Iwaizumi sits himself back on the right side of the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Tooru. It’s the side furthest from the door, which means Iwaizumi has a clear shot over Oikawa at anything coming in. He shifts his rear, repeatedly nudging Tooru over until Iwaizumi can put one leg on the bed as well. The other leg he crosses on top to save space.

Like this, he can lean back against the wall comfortably, his entire left side pressed against Oikawa. He taps the back of Tooru’s hand, murmuring, “Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch awhile, at least until it’s night.”

With the collapse of civilisation, the nights now were long and quiet and dark, undisturbed by urban or suburban influences. If any vehicles came driving up to the hospital, Iwaizumi would be able to hear them even if they turned off the headlights.

If there’s one thing that eases his mind, it’s that he doesn’t think the bandits would search at night; the walkers were dangerous enough during the day, and staying out of town after dark without somewhere to hole up was suicide now, what with the wandering hordes.

He sighs through his nose. Oikawa was going to have to learn about the living dead at some point. Might as well be tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Tooru is too shocked at Hajime’s admission to come up with any words or complaints about the IVs, simply staring at Hajime as he does his work with what looks like practiced ease. He only lets out a low whine at the insertion, pouting up at Hajime without a word.

He can feel his cheeks burn in embarrassment as he tries to make up a comeback, but his mind is blank, and he doesn’t register what Hajime is doing until he’s sitting right up against him, and Tooru moves as far to the side as he can to make room, opening his mouth to make a comment comparing this to when they used to be kids and had fallen asleep on Tooru’s futon together many times — the hospital bed isn’t much bigger, but they definitely are, and Tooru is very aware of how Hajime is pressed against his side. He wants to move over, both so he can be turned against Hajime and to give him more room, but now that the IVs are back in, he’s not comfortable with moving his arms around too much, so he lies down, more on the back than on the side, turning his head to look up at Hajime with a small, tired smile. He yawns before he has a chance to cover his mouth, blinking up at him tiredly for a few seconds before he makes himself a bit more comfortable, preparing to sleep.

“Just—just remember to get some sleep too, right? I can totally keep watch too, just wake me up when it’s time,” he says, so tired that he’s pretty sure he’ll fall asleep before he has time to close his eyes. “G’night, Iwa-chan,” he says, too tired to try and stifle his yawn this time, before he closes his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.

 

* * *

 

“Sleep.” Iwaizumi repeats, deciding to refrain from telling Oikawa he has no intention of saddling him with any duties until he’s well again. And then, because he’s a fucking sap, he adds softly, “Night, Tooru.” once Oikawa’s eyes close.

He sits there quietly, watching the light outside gradually dim until night truly fell and the room was left in nothing but shadows and shapes. Iwaizumi’s used to it now, even enjoys it to a certain extent, but it’d taken him a while to adjust to night with the world in a pre-industrial state. Civilisation was so loud and bright and noisy, and it’s only in its absence that he realised how truly silent and dark the world became after sundown.

About thirty minutes after he stopped being able to see Oikawa’s features properly, Iwaizumi finally allows his eyes to slip shut, relaxing as gradually he settles down. Every hurt he still feels pales in comparison to the sheer contentment he feels at sharing Oikawa’s warmth and space again; for the first time in over a hundred days, he falls asleep peacefully, the crease between his eyes completely smoothed out.

 

 

Something moving beside him brings him to wakefulness; he’s a light sleeper now, not because it’s his nature, but out of necessity. There’s the rustle of sheets in the dimness, an almost restless shifting at his left. Cracking open his eyes a slit, he looks sleepily towards Oikawa, noting that it was dawn and enough light had filtered back in to see with.

Something niggles at the back of his mind, but he’s too tired to pinpoint what it is, his entire body lax and sluggish like it hasn’t been since he started sleeping with one eye open. Oikawa had turned away from him in his sleep, though they were still close enough to touch. As Iwaizumi looks towards him, he realises Oikawa’s making little distressed noises, curled up on himself like he’s having a bad nightmare.

Unable to continue watching Oikawa in his tormented state, Iwaizumi rubs his eyes, yawning and sitting up properly as he leans over Oikawa. The off-feeling at the back of his mind is growing stronger, almost exponentially.

“Tooru?” he asks, voice heavy with lassittude. “Tooru, wake up.”

As he reaches over and pulls lightly at Oikawa’s shoulder, he suddenly realises what’s wrong.

The only warmth is emanating from himself.

Through the fabric, Oikawa’s skin is cool.

Tooru turns towards him, eyes open. Open and dead. His mouth is open, horribly agape. What Iwaizumi had taken for muffled noises has actually been a series of muted death rattles.

Iwaizumi’s entire being freezes, his mind doused in ice. He can’t even move as Oikawa slowly faces him, sitting up in jerky movements.

A broken sound echoes in the shattered peace of the room, an emotion of raw human grief, and Iwaizumi realises it had burst from his own throat. Tears fill his eyes, blurring Oikawa’s snarling features.

“No, no no no _no no--”_

Oikawa _growls_ , an awful bestial sound that Iwaizumi didn’t even know he had the ability to make, and lunges towards him, hands clawed. Iwaizumi scrambles sideways off the still-warm sheets, one hand closing around the gun, put within easy reach for exactly this reason.

Well, not _exactly._

He tumbles to the floor with a crash and Oikawa lurches after him, falls on top of him. Oikawa’s face is mottled and pale with death’s pallour, eyes sunken, lips drawn back and teeth champing as Iwaizumi holds him off with one arm, the other one coming up to jam the gun into the soft flesh under Tooru’s chin.

His finger trembles on the trigger as he looks into Oikawa’s wide staring eyes. Oikawa is a walker now, if Iwaizumi wants to live he needs to pull it, just one little movement of his finger, put the _thing_ that isn’t Tooru to rest forever--

As his finger twitches, Hajime’s eyes fly open.

He jerks fully awake, gasping, drenched in cold sweat. Before he can stop himself he’s turning to Oikawa, leaning over him, feeling his face, his pulse, pressing his ear to Oikawa’s chest. He’s making enough of a disturbance to wake Tooru from his rest, but Iwaizumi can’t help it, he can’t _not_ check, has to make sure it had been just a dream.

For a single horrifying second in which his world turns to dread, Iwaizumi hears nothing, nothing at all.

Then he feels Tooru’s heartbeat, strong and steady. Warm.

Hajime closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping, pressing his forehead against Tooru’s chest as he regains his composure. Slowly, his breathing slows as he tries to put the worst nightmare he’s ever had out of his head.

Outside, the sky hasn’t even begun to light, the entire room still shrouded in shadow.


	6. preparation

Tooru wakes with a startle, after feeling hands on his face, then his neck for a moment, then some added weight on his chest. His mind is still hazy, and he tries to remember where he is, who he’s with, eyes squinting down at the thing on his chest, a dark head of short hair and a full grown body leaning in over him. His eyes still haven’t gotten used to the lack of light, so he reaches down and puts a hand on each of the person’s shoulders, pushing downwards, barely able to push an inch despite putting in strength.

“What are you—“ he asks, voice too croaky to sound panicked, before he breathes in, the smell of some cheap soap hitting him instantly. He blinks slowly as the memories of yesterday returns, Tooru waking up, Hajime explaining the state of the world, that room temperature soup, Hajime’s injuries…

“Iwa-chan?” he asks, clearing his throat as his voice finally begins to sound like itself once again, resisting the urge to reach up and card his fingers through Hajime’s hair, slightly longer than what he’s used to. He’d probably find a bump at the side of his head, put there by Tooru himself, and he doesn’t want to hurt him any further.

The position is odd, so he slides his hands up Hajime’s neck from his shoulders to his face, cradling his cheeks as he nudges Hajime to try and make him look up and face Tooru, even though Tooru probably wouldn’t be able to see — much less properly read — his expression in the dark. “What’s wrong?”

Hajime’s skin is damp under his hands, but not warmer than usual, and Tooru is _pretty_ sure they’re not in this position because Hajime wanted to cuddle or some shit, so he lets go with one hand, pushing himself up slightly by the elbow and ignoring his body protest the action, the throbbing at the back of his head — water, he needs more water — looking at Hajime as his eyes get used to the darkness and his silhouette becomes clearer to Tooru.

 

* * *

 

If there’s any doubt left, any of it is erased as Oikawa’s voice washes over him. He responds instinctively to Tooru’s touch, obediently lifting his head as slim fingers nudge him. As he does, Iwaizumi moves, surging forward until their heads bump. He continues pushing, keeping their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling. Not wanting to put unnecessary weight on Oikawa, he shifts his own hands until they’re no longer on Tooru’s chest, but on the mattress between neck and shoulder.

One, two, three, four, five seconds. Then Iwaizumi lifts his head, trying to smile to reassure Oikawa, forgetting momentarily about the non-existent lighting.

“No fever,” he mutters by way of explanation. “thank god.”

It’s only till then that he suddenly realises how close they are. Iwaizumi moves to get his weight off of Oikawa, apologising hurriedly, trying to brush off the whole thing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I…” He clears his throat. “I dreamt you got infected, that’s all. It’s nothing, go back to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru’s heartbeat fastens within seconds, beating all the way up in his throat, and for a moment he’s self-conscious about it, wondering if Hajime can hear it too, even though he’s well aware that it’s unlikely — unless, of course, Hajime presses his head against his chest again. The thought doesn’t help him calm down at all, neither the sensation of his warm breath lingering on the lower half of Tooru’s face, even as Hajime pulls back.

At first, he’s too distracted by the proximity to properly listen to Hajime’s words, but he reaches out instinctively, grabbing the scrubs he’s wearing to keep him from pulling too far away, shaking his head.

“Just a nightmare, then,” he says, letting go of the scrubs to pat Hajime’s shoulder instead. “I’m fine though — as good as someone who’s been out for over 3 months can be, at least,” he jokes, tilting his head to the side, still squinting to try and see Hajime’s expression.

Even in the dark, he can almost feel the uncomfortableness coming off of Hajime in waves as if it’s tangible, and he has to bite back the urge to touch him more, to try and make him feel better. He’s pretty sure being even more touchy-feely than he usually is after Hajime has been alone for so long isn’t going to make him feel any better, though. He’s also pretty sure that Hajime isn’t going to be able to sleep after just waking up from whatever he had dreamt.

“But you woke me up, Iwa-chan,” he says in a faux-accusing voice, raising an eyebrow at him even though he’s pretty sure Hajime won’t be able to see it that well in the dark. If Hajime won’t be able to sleep again, Tooru can at least keep him company. It’s not like he hasn’t been sleeping enough lately anyway. “Take responsibility.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru’s voice still sounds a dusky from both sleep and long-term disuse, and for no fucking good reason at all, Iwaizumi’s breath catches a little at those two words. He doesn’t really want to examine the exact reason why, so he doesn’t. Not with only scant inches between them. Also, these scrubs are too thin. He can feel the warmth of Tooru’s hand right through them.

Instead of focusing on that, he defaults to his usual when it comes to Oikawa.

“Think of it as payback for cracking open a goddamn vase on my head. We’re even now.” he retorts as he fights against the impulse to stay as close as he can to Tooru and finally pulls back. He sits up properly, scratching at the back of his head. Despite the rude awakening, he actually feels better rested than he has in months. His head feels clearer, and even his eye and lip feel like the swelling’s gone down a bit.

Iwaizumi glances out the window, and he think he can see the sky just starting to lighten from black to deep-blue. He breathes a small sigh, relieved his nightmare had come towards the end of his ten-hour sleep. At least Oikawa got something like a twelve hour rest. Good.

Today’s going to be a busy day. Might as well get started. Iwaizumi knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep, and it seems Oikawa does too, seemingly still as clairvoyant as ever in regards to Hajime.

He takes the half-empty bottle of water from the bedside and puts it by Oikawa’s hand. He thinks about opening it for Tooru, then decides even that effort would be good for Oikawa, minute as it is. Then Iwaizumi gets slowly off the bed, stretching his back as he does, listening to his spine crackle as he works the stiffness out. If there’s one thing that’s been instrumental in keeping him alive through the end of the world, it’s that having been an athletic teenager, it’d helped being limber and being in shape. At the very least, it gave him a step up as a scavenger, and Iwaizumi’s kept a routine of stretching ever since, keeping his body warmed up, ready, as soon as he wakes up.

He goes through the motions, thinking about Tooru as he does. It’s good that Oikawa had been in peak physical health before it all started. He’s in better shape than most people would be in his situation; the sooner he started moving around, getting his muscles used to activity again, the better. It was going to be hard, and his body would protest mightily under being such strain so soon, but Iwaizumi knows Oikawa can do it. He would have to, once Iwaizumi showed him the walkers and the threat they posed.

Once he’s finished stretching, he steps lightly over to where the carts and IV bags are hanging. One bag is empty, and the other would go the same way by the time daylight arrived. All three were 10-hour drips, and Iwaizumi decides they can save the last bag for tomorrow night. Give Oikawa’s body time and rest from the continuous processing of nutrients in his veins.

Once again, he takes Oikawa’s hand in his, pulling out the needle connected to the empty bag, doing it properly so Tooru’s skin doesn’t bruise. He kneads the minute wound there, applying pressure while he waits for it to stop bleeding.

“You hungry?” he asks. It’s too dark to see inside the cart itself, but there should be enough light if he brings the cans over to the window. Iwaizumi rephrases his question. “I mean, are you up for solid food? I’m surprised you were able to chew and swallow at all yesterday.”

Keeping pressure on Tooru’s hand, he raises his other one to Oikawa’s jaw, massaging the line of it with calloused fingers. “Doesn’t it ache?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru stares at Hajime on the floor at first, slowly opening the bottle in his hand and sipping from it, more focused on Hajime’s movements than getting something to drink. He’s in great shape, and the scrubs are tight enough for Tooru to get a proper view, and it doesn’t take long for him to feel weird about observing without joining in himself, but just the thought of putting his body through that now makes him want to lie back down in the bed and forget about the world going under right outside the room. Hajime moves into a position that exposes a dark bruise under his skin, and Tooru grimaces, eyes sliding over his back as he wonders how many more hides underneath, well aware that Hajime would hide every single injury from him if he could.

After Hajime finishes and joins him by the bed, Tooru can do nothing but watch, at first with fascination, then a pained grimace as Hajime pulls the needle out, surprised when Hajime goes the extra mile, continuing to give the small wound attention even after putting away the needle.

“The vegetables were pretty soggy,” he mumbles, thinking about the soup from last night. He doesn’t feel particularly hungry, never was one with a big appetite in the morning unless he had something sweet to eat — he assumes Hajime’s selection isn’t that wide.

When Hajime reaches his hand up, he freezes, eyes widening for a moment before he realises what he’s doing, telling himself his involuntary huff is out of relief, not disappointment.

The touch is oddly gentle, and even though it does hurt a bit, it’s more sore than achey, and mostly when his mouth is open. Tooru is pretty sure it has more to do with just him talking so much after not being used to it than eating the soup, but he doesn’t say that out loud. He refuses to basically serve Hajime the opportunity to tell him he talks too much on a silver platter.

Instead, he reaches up around Hajime’s hand with his own, pressing it in against the side of his face, closing his eyes for a moment as he leans in against the touch.

“Iwa-chan is being so nice to me, I should get hospitalized more often,” he mumbles, opening his eyes to look up at Hajime with a small smile. “You’re like my own personal nurse,” he says, eyes wandering down to the scrubs again, smile widening into a grin as he lets go of Hajime’s hand, pressing both hands down against the mattress as he sits up straighter.

“I should get up and start moving too, right? The sooner the better, I mean? Do you think I can shower today? I feel so gross — and a haircut, maybe? You really need one, Iwa-chan, and I bet my hair looks better than yours, but that isn’t saying much, so maybe—“ he starts, before he has to stifle a yawn, reaching his hand up to cover his mouth. Yup. His jaw definitely aches.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi feels himself going red (embarrassment) at Oikawa’s hand over his own, and then Oikawa opens his mouth, rakes his eyes over him, and Hajime feels himself going red for a different reason (exasperation.) Or maybe it’s the same reason, under a different excuse. Whatever. Tooru’s still a teasing dickhead, and Iwaizumi’s next words are laced with indignation.

“And _you’re_ like my own personal-- _dumbass_ \--” he trails off, the absolute height of wit. The scrubs are comfortable, but they’re only good as pajamas, nothing more. He resolves to change out of them soon as he can to prevent giving Oikawa more fuel for his teasing.

The subject changes as Oikawa sits up, and Iwaizumi pounces on the opportunity gladly, lifting his own hands off his friend.

“Yes, yes. Yes. You’re always gross. Shut up.” he drones as he responds to Oikawa’s torrent of questions and comments, rolling his eyes. He realises suddenly that he can see Oikawa’s face now, and that he can hear the shrill chirping of birds floating in from the open window. Daybreak.

He rummages in the cart and pulls out four cans that he brings over to the window, squinting as he tries to make out the labels, scowling in concentration as he does. English had always been one of his worst subjects; thrust into this country, he’d had no choice but to learn quickly, but though his speech and listening abilities have vastly improved, his reading and writing is still rather mediocre.

“Baked beans...spam...corned beef…” he makes out painfully slowly, shooting little glares at Oikawa every few syllables, fully expecting more teasing. “...and sliced peaches.” he finishes. Knowing Oikawa, he’d probably go for the peaches.

“Pick anything but the peaches.” Iwaizumi says brusquely. “You need protein, not just sugar if you want to last the day.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru opens his mouth to ask for the peaches just as Hajime tells him he can't have them, pouting in reply. Hajime knows him too damn well.

“But Iwa- _chan_ ,” he groans, dragging out the last syllable, flopping back down into the bed.

“If I can’t have anything sweet, I don’t care. You choose,” he adds with a grumble, pushing himself up to sit again with effort _and_ the strength of both of his arms, regretting lying down on the bed again instantly. He probably shouldn’t waste too much energy. Then again, maybe just sitting up is good practice, since he can’t be of much help if even that takes too much effort.

“When did you get so good at pronunciation anyway? Did you practice while I was in a coma, Iwa-chan? That’s just _low,”_ he complains, pushing out his lower lip in an even more exaggerated pout, shaking his head. Tooru was used to being the one who was best at English of the two, and he took great pride in that, even having watched many English dramas and movies as a teenager to get better at speaking it too. Remembering how much both of them had improved when moving here, he shouldn’t be surprised that Hajime had advanced while being alone with probably only English speakers for months. Of course, that doesn’t stop Tooru from feeling a bit ripped off. It’s hardly — not at all — Hajime’s fault, but at least Hajime still seemed to be slower at reading. Tooru can’t be sure if that’s because of the light, probably barely enough to make out any words, but if things really are as bad as they seem, he can’t imagine Hajime having had much time to sit down and practice reading anyway.

He already offered Hajime to choose, but suddenly has a change of mind, pushing his legs over the edge of the bed. “Let’s eat baked beans, since it’s breakfast time,” he says, patting on the spot next to him on the bed, motioning for Hajime to join him.

 

* * *

 

He’s zoned Tooru out and is already in the middle of prying open the can of corned beef when Oikawa suddenly calls for the beans instead. Feeling a tic under his left eye, Iwaizumi wordlessly exchanges the two cans, staring straight at Oikawa as he opens the beans instead.

With a small huff, he sits down next to Oikawa anyway, giving him the can so he can eat first. Once he does, he reaches out, pushes the food cart away and tugs back the trolley with the clothes. He just needs a new top and trousers, ones that are more form-fitting; baggy clothes got you grabbed, and getting grabbed almost certainly meant a death sentence. (Following the same line of thought, Oikawa’s right about getting a haircut for both of them too, though perhaps not for the reason he thinks.) The boots Iwaizumi has now are still serviceable, in good working condition: no need to replace them.

Just as he’s pulling on a simple black T-shirt with some kind of English slogan on it (he can’t be assed to put in the effort of reading it), he suddenly realises one thing as he goes through their schedule for the day.

“Oh, shit. Oikawa… you don’t have any shoes, do you?” He looks down at Oikawa’s bare feet. Not even socks. Understandable, since coma patients didn’t exactly need footwear, but _dammit._ And Iwaizumi had completely forgotten to take any shoes with him when he’d raided the closet rooms.

It’s one thing to walk around barefoot in this room. He’s not about to let Oikawa wander the corridors outside like this, not with broken glass and metal everywhere and the floor stained with blood and worse. But Oikawa really wants that shower, too.

Iwaizumi knows the solution already, even before he actually thinks about it. Knowing Oikawa isn't exactly going to be thrilled about what he’s come up with, he decides not to mention it until the time comes.

 

* * *

 

Tooru accepts the can, nose scrunching when he remembers that they still don’t have any eating utensils, before raising it to his lips and pouring some of the beans in the tomato sauce into his mouth, chewing slowly. He’s had it a few times, but never room temperature or alone from the can, and he can’t say he likes it.

He eats a bit more anyway, watching Hajime get dressed while doing so, and when Hajime mentions his lack of shoes, he raises his feet, wiggling and stretching his toes — a few joints crack and he grimaces slightly, but it also feels _really_ nice, so he stretches his legs in front of him, continuing to do so as he looks up at Hajime.

“My shoes weren’t in my—oh, I guess not. Maybe they’re with the rest of my clothes? Can I get some normal clothes too, Iwa-chan, or do I have to wear this thing forever?” he asks, lifting the thin fabric of the hospital gown up, letting go as he looks back to Hajime.

Then his eyes land on the t-shirt he just put on, and he squints slightly, finally able to see and read the motive, leaning forward in the bed as if cutting a few centimeters off the long distance between them would make it any easier for him to read.

“Zombies… hate _fast food?_ ” he asks, snorting at the joke before he raises the can to his lips again, pouring more of the beans into his mouth, shaking his head at Hajime’s pick of clothes as he chews. “That’s really classy, Iwa-chan. At least I know you’d survive if there was zombies, then,” he says, raising the can towards Hajime, urging him to eat some of it too. The can itself isn’t heavy, but just stretching out his arm with a little added weight reminds him of the soreness in his biceps, and he bows his arms a little, still holding the can out to him, without stretching his arm completely. “And that your taste in clothes sucks as much as it always has.”

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi freezes in the middle of adjusting the shirt. He looks down at it.

“That’s what it says?”

Without waiting for confirmation he pulls it back off, not exactly in the mood for ironic humour, unwitting as it is. In his haste he completely forgets to separate the shirt from the scrubs underneath, and as he yanks it off he pulls both garments off himself. Too late, he forgets the state of his torso and Iwaizumi grits his teeth as he turns away quickly, hoping Oikawa won’t mention it. It’s too much to hope that Oikawa won’t see: it’s turning out to be a beautifully sunny day, and dawn light is filling the room, throwing both of them into sharp relief.

Much of his lower back and chest is dark-blue, tinged with green and yellow where it’s started to heal. The worst of it had been to his stomach and abdomen, where the bruises are still black-purple and even vaguely deep ugly red in the middle; again, he’s surprised he’d gotten away without broken or even fractured ribs after having been kicked repeatedly there after he’d been downed.

He shakes his head at the proffered can, muttering, “I’ll have some later, you have it.” and quickly rummages around the trolley again. He fishes out a pair of jeans and a white button-up shirt, and decides they’ll do for now. He needs to get changed right _now_ ; it’s bad enough he isn’t able to hide his eye or his lip: Oikawa doesn’t need to see the rest of him like this either, shouldn’t have to.

“You should look through these too,” Hajime says, refusing to make eye contact, wishing he was sitting on Tooru’s left instead so his hurt eye is out of Tooru’s sight at least. “Can’t have you running around in something that’ll leave your bare ass hanging out if something pulls at the back.”

 

* * *

 

“The joke wasn’t _that_ bad,” he mumbles quietly, unsure of why Hajime would react like that, but stops when Hajime pulls off his clothes, baring his torso. Tooru’s throat constricts as he stares at the many dark and yellow bruises covering Hajime’s back, at the fact that he had hidden it from him — not that Tooru is surprised by this. Doesn’t mean he’s okay with it.

“Iwa-chan,” he chokes out, reaching out to touch the bared skin, stopping himself a mere moment before he comes in contact, afraid to hurt him any further. He puts down the can before he scoots a little closer to Hajime, leaning in to try and capture Hajime’s attention. At this angle, the swollen eye is conveniently right in his view, even as Hajime is turned away, and Tooru is relieved to see it look a _bit_ better than last night, but the overall image of him, bruised and hurt all over, is etched into Tooru’s mind, and he still has to fight the urge to reach out and touch him.

“Anyone would be lucky to get a view of my bare ass,” he replies, almost instinctively, his tone much too distant, distracted, for it to come out like his usual jokes, and he still can’t look away from the bruises covering Hajime’s skin, feeling as if the gravity of the situation is finally beginning to dawn on him.

“What happened?” he asks, forcing his attention down to the cart in front of him, reaching out for the thing nearest to him — the t-shirt, still entangled with the scrubs from underneath. He stops himself, looking up at Hajime again, remembering his extreme reaction to finding out what was on it. He can’t both tell Tooru not to wear a simple T-shirt with a dumb joke on it _and_ brush off Tooru’s question in the same breath, Tooru figures, pulling it apart from the scrubs, eyeing Hajime again to see his reaction.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa’s right, as usual; the joke isn’t that bad at all, and even now Iwaizumi can see the humour in it. But with the lingering threat of the bandits, he doesn’t want to wear anything that would give them ideas should they meet again. They’re exactly the sort of men who’d take one look at a shirt like that and shoot the wearer in the foot before throwing him in front of a horde.

Also, Iwaizumi knows too many dead people who hadn’t been _fast_ enough. Not the shirt’s fault, but that sort of knowledge tended to sour the entire spirit of the joke itself, makes it feel almost disrespectful to the dead.

None of his thoughts help him to construct a proper reply to Oikawa’s question. It’s not that he’s bad with words or at expressing his thoughts, but in this case there’s simply too much context to explain that Oikawa has no knowledge of.

Iwaizumi is silent for a long while, turning back to Oikawa but still not meeting his gaze. He watches Tooru disentangle the shirt, then says quietly. “I wouldn’t wear that if I were you.” Another pause, and then he finally looks at him, expression impassive.

“I’ll show you why after you shower and get changed.” Picking up their meager breakfast that Oikawa had set down, Iwaizumi tips back the can for a few mouthfuls, chewing each bite perfunctorily.

“As for these,” he gestures vaguely at himself, still refusing to get into unnecessary details. “I told you already. Bandits.”

He leaves Oikawa for the washroom before Oikawa can press him for more details. Iwaizumi doesn’t want to lie to him, and Oikawa’s always been good at getting what he wants from Hajime without even really trying, reluctant answers included.

Plus, he can change freely now. He’s not shy about changing in front of Oikawa of course, but there’s the gunshot graze on his thigh, and he still thinks Oikawa doesn’t need to see any of him like this until he’s healed.

The jeans fit surprisingly well, as does the shirt. Iwaizumi rolls the sleeves up to his forearms automatically, then heads back towards the clothes trolley.

“Finish up,” he tells Tooru, indicating the can with a jerk of his head as he pulls a towel from the pile. “and bring the clothes you want with you.”

Heading over to the bedside table, he slings the machete back over his shoulder and shoves the gun into his back pocket, then clears the doorway of obstacles. He opens it a fraction, enough so he can nudge it open with a foot, then turns back to Tooru, waiting for him to be ready.


	7. shower

Tooru observes Hajime for a moment before giving in, putting down the t-shirt as Hajime had told him to. He may enjoy disobeying orders most of the time to get a rile out of him, but something in Hajime’s tone tells Tooru that he’s serious, and Tooru _does_ trust him. With his life, actually — and Hajime had already proven himself to be worthy of his trust on that account.

He feels anger flare up in his chest at Hajime’s very vague explanation, well aware that he’s not keen on going into details. The urge to protect Hajime is almost comical, because Tooru is well aware that in his current condition, he’d probably be more in the way than of help. He doesn’t want to be an obstacle.

He looks back down at the t-shirt, now on top of the pile, easy to find if Hajime’s reason really does turn out to be bullshit. Instead, he finds another shirt, a long-sleeved one that looks clean-ish and would probably be an ideal fit if he hadn’t lost all that weight. Tooru throws it over his arm before he leans down again, going through the contents of the trolley for a pair of trousers to match. He settles for some sweatpants, completely unsure if the size is right but figuring that it doesn’t matter as much if it isn’t perfect with these, since he can just tie the waistband accordingly, and they’re loose enough to fit most people.

Tooru pushes himself off of the bed to stand up, keeping his hands on the bed for balance and manages to actually not fall on his ass this time. He lets go after he feels stable enough and walks a few steps around as a test, having no balance issues even without holding on to furniture as long as he does it slowly. His thighs barely ache except when his strides are too wide, and Tooru curses his old habit of taking longer ones just to bother Hajime. After a few moments, he goes back to the bed, grabbing the can as Hajime asked to finish his meal.

He does it in two mouthfuls, chewing the first one dutifully while staring at Hajime’s backside, _definitely_ not thinking about how well those jeans fit, how they accentuate Hajime’s ass, or how it really shouldn’t be hot with a _gun_ pressed against it, sticking out of the pocket. He empties the can on the second turn, putting it down on the bedside table as he starts chewing the bigger mouthful before walking over to join Hajime by the door.

Walking through the room, Tooru suddenly notices how cold his feet feel, naked against the uncarpeted floor. He remembers that Hajime had mentioned it before but hadn’t come up with a solution, and Tooru stops when he finally reaches Hajime’s side by the door, looking up from his feet and giving him a questioning look.

“What about the shoe problem?”

 

* * *

 

“Right,” Iwaizumi says tonelessly, taking a step towards Tooru, closing whatever little distance was left between them. “‘the shoe problem.’” He flicks his eyes up at Tooru, then rakes his gaze over the length of Oikawa’s body, the thin hospital gown leaving almost nothing to the imagination. (Not like _that._ More like, Iwaizumi can see just how thin Tooru is compared to before, the lines of his throat and clavicle and shoulders more pronounced than usual. (Okay, maybe a _little_ like that.))

He clears his throat. “I’ll carry you.”

Leaving no time for Oikawa to process his words, Iwaizumi sweeps his leg out and knocks Oikawa’s feet out from underneath. He’s close enough to catch Oikawa before he hits the ground, and strong enough to bodily lift him up, hooking one arm around his back and the other behind his knees. It’s really not that difficult once the pain lancing through his torso from his efforts dies down again. He’d been able to carry Oikawa’s heavy ass around when Oikawa was _healthy_ ; the weight Oikawa is now poses no trouble for Iwaizumi at all--

\--if Tooru doesn’t start struggling and wriggling like a wet eel, that is. Iwaizumi curls his arms, tightens his grip to prevent exactly that. Oikawa would understand why he insisted on this once they left the room; his feet would be sliced open and probably infected within ten steps if he walked the floor without footwear.

“Gun’s in my back pocket,” he grunts, unaware that Oikawa Knows _._ “if you feel like grabbing for it to make you feel better, go ahead.”

He nudges open the door with one foot. On the wall directly across from their line of sight, an unidentifiable black smear of something long rotted stains the wall.

Without further ado, Iwaizumi steps out from their little pocket of the past, his footsteps silent except for the crunch of debris. On their left, a large window at the end of the hallway sheds warm yellow sunlight down the corridor, just a little past their doorway. To their right, their path grows dark, the only light there at the very end, fluorescent and lifeless and flickering erratically, bathing the hallway there in an eerie, ghostly white that plunges into darkness randomly.

Iwaizumi turns right, the sunlight at his back casting a malformed shadow in front of them, fading quickly to mingle with the darkness ahead. He casts a quick look down at Oikawa to see if he’s all right, then looks up again, his breath steady, his eyes calm.

“Shower’s this way.” he says, voice pitched low, and begins walking, careful strides that avoid the papers littering the floor. In the darkness just before they reach the glow of the flickering light, a rotted corpse Iwaizumi had beheaded lay against the wall, guts gaping, innards strewn about haphazardly. The head itself is on its side and in their path, looking their way, eyes open, hair blond and matted, skull also open thanks to Iwaizumi’s machete. Dried blood and viscera streaked the floor.

Without even pausing, Iwaizumi nudges his boot against the head and flicks it out of their way without looking at it. There’s a callousness in the motion that suggests that any pity he might have felt for whom the corpse used to be has long since been used up and emptied. Iwaizumi doesn’t notice it at all.

He only has eyes for Oikawa, and as they take a left at the end of the hall, he glances down at Tooru again, the look in his expression warm and concerned.

“Doing all right?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru yelps when the ground disappears underneath him, reaching both arms up around Hajime’s neck to make sure he won’t fall down, tightening his grip until he no longer feels unstable. He doesn’t let go of Hajime’s neck just yet, it feels more secure (and nicer) but he releases the strong hold, his arms definitely not aching from just being used in such a short amount of time.

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, pressing his knees together to make it easier for Hajime, leaning his head up against his own shoulder, arm slung around Hajime’s back.

"If you wanted me to fondle your ass, you could've just asked, Iwa-chan,” he mumbles in reply to the gun comment, unsure about what he’d need it for. If they really were surrounded by bandits, it was probably better that Hajime was the one using it.

He scrunches his nose at the smell when Hajime goes outside the room, wordlessly staring at the dark stains on the wall, beginning to understand why Hajime felt it necessary to _lift_ him all the way to the showers — at least it wasn’t because he didn’t think Tooru was strong enough, he figures, and that does make him feel a bit better. Back before all this, getting Hajime to lift him up was hilarious, maybe a bit embarrassing at times, depending on the reason why, now he just feels small and fragile. Well, it won’t last long, he figures, since they just need a pair of shoes, and he needs to get his muscles used to activity again.

The hallway is still too dark for him to see much, but Hajime seems to know his way quite well, and Tooru can’t do much else than just… stay in his arms and wait. The place looks like taken out of a horror movie, and Tooru wants to voice his observation, but he feels oddly weird speaking up in this place.

Just before they reach the area lighted up by the flickering light, Tooru hears a small sound as Hajime nudges something out of their way, and when Tooru turns to look, it’s already hard to see in the dark, except a little more of the dark unidentifiable stains on the floor as well. He grimaces, trying to breathe through his mouth only, since the stench is even more foul here, a strong feeling of unease coming over him until Hajime turns right, leaving that hallway behind. He breathes out in relief, leaning in against his shoulder again, looking up when Hajime asks.

“This whole place stinks,” he mumbles, a part of him helpfully reminding him about the military massacre that happened. He can proudly say he’s not sure how rotting corpses smell, but he figured, that’d be mostly gone within a few weeks — he doesn’t want to know if there are any fresher ones. He swallows a lump in his throat, hoping the nausea will disappear with the shower, too aware of the taste of the lingering taste of the baked beans in his mouth. “I’m ready for that shower,” he adds, looking up at Hajime with a small smile, still making sure not to breathe through his nose.

 

* * *

 

“ _I’m_ ready for your shower, too, _hime-sama._ ” Iwaizumi echoes, amusement in his voice. It’s been more than a week since he came for Oikawa, and while Iwaizumi doesn’t mind the smell of unwashed boy-- hell, they’ve both smelled far worse after practice-- it feels good just to rib him again.

And then Oikawa’s comment about the stench registers. “It stinks?” Iwaizumi blinks down at Oikawa. He pays more attention to his olfactory senses as they continue, and belatedly realises what Oikawa meant: the smell of putrefaction and decay, of course, of meat gone bad. “...right. Yeah, I guess.”

He wrinkles his nose, unsurprised by the fact that he’s been desensitised to this extent to the smell. It really isn’t that bad, at least compared to the walkers outside, where the summer sun kept them ripe and juicy and wet. It’s nothing at all compared to when Iwaizumi had split open walker guts and covered himself in them to get back to Tooru.

They continue onwards towards the labs, Hajime purposely taking a longer, darker route that takes them out of the way of the worst sights. As he nears their destination however, he sobers up. There’s no other entrance into the labs, and this is the site that the initial shots were fired: the lab itself is empty, the staff working there having only been gunned down after they’d run out.

Iwaizumi pauses just before he pushes past the heavy double-doors into the area, shifting Oikawa more securely in his grip. He’s not afraid of walkers here: every single corpse beyond this point he’d personally double-tapped and separated head from shoulders.

No, he’s more concerned that the lights are still in good working order here, and therefore illuminating every grisly detail that lay beyond. There’s another set of doors to the laboratory themselves; the place was untouched there. But before that place, there was about fifteen or so headless corpses to walk past.

Iwaizumi’s not sure how to tell Oikawa that the decapitation thing is his own handiwork if Oikawa asks.

He takes a deep breath, then just says what needs to be said. “There’s bodies past these doors, the military took them down. Just so you know.”

With that, he nudges the door open with one shoulder and makes their way inside.

“Might want to hold your breath, just till we get over there.” he nods his head at the see-through doors across the wide room, then begins striding past the first of the necrotic corpses, moving swiftly.

 

* * *

 

Tooru stares, at the area as a whole, then at some of the individual corpses as they walk past, unable to look away from the horrifying view meeting his eyes. He had expected bodies killed by gunshots, maybe some bloodied clothes, not the scene that met him, like something taken out of a splatter movie, throats slit and decapitated. He retches, the taste of acid reaching the back of his mouth, and forces himself to close his eyes, leaning in against the crook of Hajime’s neck again, swallowing the lump in his throat and forcing his body to relax — he’s not going to puke up the food he had just eaten, he’s supposed to get _stronger._

“They cut off their heads?” he asks, referring to the corpses, remembering Hajime’s recollection of what had happened with the military. “That’s so… inhumane,” he adds, wondering why they’d go so far if it was simply to stop the disease from spreading. It’s not like dead bodies could do much more harm.

Once again, he feels bad that Hajime had to go through all that alone, watching the massacre, hiding Tooru while he still unconscious to stop him from ending up the same way, then having to see the aftermath, and _alone._ Tooru nuzzles his face into Hajime’s neck once more, promising himself he’ll never leave him alone again. He feels so helpless and new to it all, especially since Hajime seems so calm about it. He knows he’ll feel better after the shower, more like himself. He just needs to get out of this thin hospital gown and _look_ a bit more like himself too. He needs to get his shit together, to not feel like emptying the contents of his stomach at the mere view of dead bodies, because according what Hajime had said, the world should be filled with them. If he wants to be of any help, he needs to get stronger, and soon.

“Is the outside world as much of a mess as the hospital?” he asks, turning his face forward again so his voice won’t be muffled, pressed against Hajime’s neck, looking at the glass doors Hajime pointed out, shoulders relaxing in relief when he sees how close they are, the imminent promise of a shower becoming more and more urgent to him.

 

* * *

 

For the first time since Oikawa woke up, Iwaizumi falters, hesitates. He squeezes Oikawa gently in an attempt to comfort instead of giving an outright answer, remembering the first time he’d seen a human body in this state. Oikawa’s physical reaction is only natural, the _only_ reaction anyone with any basic human decency would have.

As he pushes through the last set of doors, he seriously considers not telling Tooru that he’s the one responsible for the beheadings. He doesn’t want the only person he cares about in this place to think him some kind of monster, not until Oikawa’s had a chance to see the outside world for himself, but… almost as soon as he considers it, Iwaizumi rejects the idea, the memory of Oikawa’s breath against his throat making him shiver a little.

Lying by omission is still a lie, and he refuses to do that to Tooru. Secrets weren’t safe, not if they were going to trust each other. Secrets got you killed.

“Actually, Oikawa...” he makes himself say once they enter the lab. Hajime heads in the direction of the emergency shower and eyewash station, eyeing it critically. It even has a shower curtain, and since the tap in their room still works, the water here should too.

“The military didn’t cut off the heads.” he says as they approach the station. He looks down at Tooru, expression and tone impassive. He refuses to feel guilt or even remorse over what he’d done to make this place safe, to keep _Oikawa_ safe in his absence. “That was me.”

 

* * *

 

What hits him the most isn't as much the words but the tone with which they're delivered. He doesn’t look up at Hajime, relieved that Hajime can’t see his face either when they’re still so close but not facing each other.

He knows Hajime has changed over the last few months, knew that the second he realised the guy he just hit with the vase was him, but he still refuses to believe that he has turned into a killer without a reason. He takes a deep breath, telling himself that there must be a reason, one of the many things Hajime is still trying to keep from him. He trusts Hajime, he reminds himself once more, still unsure of how to react outwardly to Hajime’s admission.

Instead, he raises his head and looks out into the room, letting out a relieved sigh when he sees that the shower even has a curtain.

“You—you can put me down here, right?” he asks, keeping his voice as neutral as possible, still not sure of how to reply to Hajime. He needs to think, to clear his head, and showering is a perfect opportunity to do so. He _really_ needs this shower. As soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

Hajime bites his lip, keenly aware of Tooru’s lack of a response, of Tooru keeping his expression hidden from him. He can’t pretend he isn’t a bit hurt, but at least Oikawa doesn’t seem to have jumped to conclusions yet; he’s not flinching away from Iwaizumi’s touch… is he?

He forces himself not to react, not to unconsciously grasp Oikawa tighter than is necessary, and sets him down at the station without another word. The towel he’d brought from their room is pulled from his shoulders, quickly folded, and placed on the nearest tabletop.

Iwaizumi begins to turn away, and then pauses. He wants to say something to break the awkward atmosphere, but for the first time in years, he’s not sure _what_ to say to Oikawa. He’s not the Iwaizumi that Tooru remembers from his memories; this revelation is only hitting Hajime now, and for the first time he wonders if that will change things between them.

He swallows, suddenly feeling like a stranger in his own body, suddenly uncertain of the words he wants to utter, has already said. He’s never been apprehensive of the impact they’ve had on his best friend, never second-guessed himself… until now.

Quickly, Hajime turns fully away before his own expression betrays his thoughts.

“Take your time.” he says shortly, then steps over to the soap dispenser near one of the normal sinks. He opens the top and pulls out the container-- it’s about two-thirds full, good-- and stalks back to Oikawa with it, placing it on the table with the towel instead of giving it to Oikawa himself before moving away again.

“I’ll wait by the doors,” he calls back over his shoulder without looking back, and Iwaizumi does exactly as he says and finds himself another table, his back to Oikawa. Without really thinking about it, he pulls out the gun and begins taking it apart methodically, making sure all its parts were in order. The last thing he needs it doing is jamming at the wrong time.

 

* * *

 

"Nothing you haven't seen before, Iwa-chan, no need to be shy,” Tooru jokes when he sees Hajime turn away from him, figuring that’s the reason he turned away. Looking down himself, Tooru is quickly reminded that he _doesn’t_ look quite like he used to, but even so, the shower has a curtain.

The awkward silence is horrible, and he’s already regretting not replying, but what could he have done? He doesn’t know enough to condemn Hajime’s actions _or_ tell him that he’s fine with it.

Tooru undresses quickly, letting the thin hospital gown fall to the floor as he grabs the soap, walking towards the showers and entering the small area behind the curtain, pulling it back and turning his attention to the shower faucet. The temperature seems pretty easy to set, but he remembers the cold water from the room’s washroom sink, figuring that this place won’t be any different and that he has to take a cold shower. There’s a convenient little shelf for shampoo bottles and the like right next to the faucet and Tooru puts down the soap container before turning the faucet over to the hottest temperature possible, hoping that there’s, by some miracle, some warm water left, before he turns on the actual water.

At first, nothing happens. Tooru waits a few seconds, opening his mouth to call for Hajime and tell him that the showers don’t work, but then the showerhead makes a noise, and cold water sprays out over his arm, making Tooru yelp and jump to the side in shock. The tiled wall isn’t much warmer, and even after some time, the water stays cold, so Tooru gets on with it, steps away from the wall and enters the stream of cold water, gritting his teeth together.

The soap smells exactly like the one Hajime had used, he notes as he pours some out, and Tooru finds an odd comfort in the two of them smelling the same, like each other, even if the soap doesn’t have the same volumizing effect on his hair.

He finishes pretty quickly — funny how you’re not as eager to stay in the shower for too long when he water is so cold — and turns off the water, pulling part of the curtain aside to stick out his head, looking for Hajime.

“Can you fetch the towel for me, Iwa-chan?” he asks, a shiver running down his spine, _really_ wishing for some warm water now. It would’ve done good for his muscles too, he thinks glumly, reaching out towards the table as if to show Hajime that it’s out of reach, shaking his head to get rid of the drops trickling down his back from the hair that isn’t sticking to his skin. It’s only then that he notices what Hajime is holding, and Tooru doesn’t try to hide his displeasure at seeing Hajime toy with the gun, still unused to its presence, even more so to the fact that Hajime seems so comfortable with it. “Just kidding, I’ll get it myself,” he says after changing his mind, keeping his voice light as he steps out, reaching the table in two long strides and grabbing the towel, covering himself as fast as possible.

“Didn’t you mention something about candles? There’s nothing I want more than a warm next meal,” he says, smiling widely as he dries himself off, already beginning to reach for his clothes before his whole body starts shaking with cold.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi can’t help smiling to himself, listening to Oikawa figure out the shower as he re-assembles the gun, almost leisurely. He perks up at the first syllable of Oikawa’s words, happy to give Oikawa whatever he needed-- only he’s just in the middle of slotting together a particularly complicated section.

“Ah, wait--” he hurries the assembly, finishing putting the pieces back together in no more than eight seconds-- but just as Iwaizumi puts the gun back down and turns, Tooru’s already moved on.

Nevertheless, he takes a few steps… and then blinks at the expression on Oikawa’s face. If he’s not mistaken, Oikawa had looked _irritated_. Hajime’s brow furrows as he ponders this, perplexed. He is not sure why Oikawa would look so, and no reason is coming to mind.

“... yeah, I did.” he finally says, deciding to table the matter away for later. He turns back to the table, putting the last pieces together before sticking the gun into his pocket once again. It’s a comforting, familiar weight at this point.

“I think there’ll be some in the janitorial areas.” he muses out loud as he walks back to Oikawa. He watches Tooru get dressed, frowning a little.

Iwaizumi steps over to him, reaching out with his hands and rubbing the sides of Oikawa’s arms over the fabric of the shirt, trying to warm him up. If he had to pick one consistent physical trait about himself, it’s that he usually has warm hands, no matter the season.

“We’ll look for them after we get you some shoes. The patient closet’s on the second floor.”

He reaches up and squeezes a lock of brown, wet hair, watching drops of water splatter to the floor. That won’t do; Tooru will catch his death of cold if he wanders around with his hair wet like this. Hajime looks around, spies the discarded hospital gown. He grabs it, folding it carelessly until it’s a rectangular piece of cloth.

“Here. For your hair.”

 

* * *

 

Post-shower weariness comes over Tooru, and he blinks slowly, leaning into the touch when Hajime rubs his arms to warm him up, forcing himself not to lean in against his chest completely and fall asleep on the spot. The fact that he’s still freezing, especially with his bare feet still directly on the cold floor, is what keeps him from doing so as he nods, smiling again at Hajime, close-mouthed but wide and calm again.

“I hope we can find some in my size — or maybe even my own shoes,” he says, his memories of the time at the hospital up until the coma still too hazy to remember where they’d be. Hell, he’s not even sure if he had been the one putting his shoes and clothes away, and if so, where. It could easily have been someone else, or he had forgotten doing it. Not knowing which is what bothers him the most.

He looks up when Hajime reaches down for the hospital gown and folds it. When he offers it, Tooru bows over instead of accepting, hands on his knees for balance, his head towards Hajime, as if expecting him to dry his hair for him like his mom used to when he was a kid. It’s not that he’s too exhausted to do something as simple as drying his own hair, he knows this and Hajime probably does as well, but a part of him still seems to like when Hajime does things for him unnecessarily, even if it’s not needed — or just to rile him up when Hajime refuses to do it, finding some of the things Tooru tries to make him do beneath him. When leaned over, more water drips down over his cheekbones and ears from the sides, cold against his skin. Tilting his head to the side to look up at Hajime, Tooru smiles widely again, making it obvious that he’s waiting for Hajime to do it instead of doing it himself.

 

* * *

 

“Oi...get a grip.” Iwaizumi’s slight alarm at Tooru’s lethargy gives a sudden spike when Oikawa’s back bows abruptly. He steps even closer, well aware he’s mother-henning (again) and not caring… until Tooru peeks up at him, perfectly fine, just _lazy_ , apparently. His smile-- what Iwaizumi can see of it -- makes Hajime’s mouth suddenly go dry.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Iwaizumi mutters, both at himself and Oikawa as he places the makeshift towel over Oikawa’s head without even an iota of hesitation; there’s still rivulets of water streaming onto the floor and the longer Oikawa stands there dripping the more likely he’s going to catch a cold. It’s summer, but even without the usual air conditioning the air in the labs is cool.

“Whatever, it’s not like I haven’t done worse,” he continues as he ruffles Oikawa’s hair none-too-gently. He also scrubs the cloth over Tooru’s neck and shoulders, making sure to soak up every drop of water he can see. His movements are vigorous, and he tells himself annoyance is just the default reaction to Oikawa’s antics, and not just because Iwaizumi’s still trying to warm him up. “You do realise that I’ve been giving you sponge baths all this time, right?”

By the time he pulls the damp hospital gown off Tooru’s head, Oikawa’s hair is sticking up in tufts. It’s almost cute. Iwaizumi squints at it. If he could, he’d be squinting at himself, too. It’s impossible to get Oikawa completely dry without a hairdryer, but if they headed to the roof after they got Oikawa proper footwear, the sun would do the rest of the work. Mentally, Iwaizumi makes a new checklist. Shoes, scissors, personal belongings… and then walkers.

 

* * *

 

Tooru stiffens at first when Hajime reminds him of the fact that he’s been bathing him all this time, staying bowed over to hide his flustered expression. He stays bent over for a moment too long in an attempt at collecting himself before he looks up again, giving Hajime a small smile.

“Right, you did,“ he says, laughs awkwardly, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “Thank you,” he adds, half embarrassed that Hajime would so easily admit to doing something so oddly intimate, half hating himself for not _being conscious while this was happening._ He feels relief too, because he’d probably be ashamed, and even with Hajime, someone he feels comfortable being completely himself around, there’s some fragility in letting someone treat you in that state. Well, he never _let_ Hajime do it, Hajime chose to. When all hell broke loose, Hajime decided to stay and fight for Tooru’s survival.

After a too long moment of awkward silence, at least on Tooru’s side, he clasps his hands together, straightening his back and smiling widely at Hajime, slowly returning to his old self, his posture and demeanor more relaxed.

“I’ll make it up to you and wash _you_ for the next three months too,” he says jokingly, leaning in towards Hajime and giving him a small smirk. “Now that I’m awake, I’d like Iwa-chan to stay clean,” _and safe,_ he adds in his mind, eyeing the injuries that Hajime can’t cover up, the image of his bare, bruised torso popping into his mind again. The offer is meant jokingly, but he _is_ serious. Hajime had been taking care of him for so long, and now it’s Tooru’s turn to return the favor. He won’t be of much help right now, but when he’s feeling better again — he won’t leave Hajime alone again, ever. Or let him get hurt. (Or _dirty._ Part of him also wasn’t joking about the cleaning part, he hasn’t forgotten how the clothes Hajime wore when entering the room first had smelled.)

“What now?” he asks, carding his fingers through his hair, spreading them slightly and using them almost like a comb, still unused to how choppy the hair feels or the length of it. Or how lifeless it is, now that his hair has pretty much forgotten about the products he used to use in it, the soap not doing much his hair. “Oh, right, shoes?” he looks down at his bare feet, wiggling his toes and forcing away the urge to shiver from the cold, way less bothered by it now that there aren’t a constant stream of small drops of cold water dripping down his back from his hair. He could really use a blow-dry, not for the sole purpose of drying his hair, but because being blown in the face by warm air actually sounds like an attractive idea right now.

 

* * *

 

“Mm.” Iwaizumi makes a humming noise at Tooru’s thanks, not thinking much of his own deed at all. Desperate times called for desperate measures (if the ending of the world isn’t desperate, Hajime doesn’t know what is), and Oikawa surely would have done the same for him had their situations been reversed. Also, it’s not as if Iwaizumi’s a stranger to Oikawa’s body (though put like that, he supposes it does sound a little weird for just friends, even if they’d known each other since they were children.) He might feel differently if he’s ever in a situation where he’s actually as helpless as Oikawa had been though. Who knows.

He leans back automatically as Oikawa leans towards him, the brief moment broken. “Yeah, maybe if I hit my head hard enough.” Iwaizumi scowls, but in truth, looking at Oikawa in proper clothes and watching his every gesture and expression, a weight Iwaizumi hadn’t even known was there lifts from his heart. Watching Oikawa slowly come back to life seems to be giving life to him as well, and looking at Oikawa with his hands clasped, shoulders back, spine straight, Iwaizumi is suddenly reminded of a feeling he hasn’t felt since high school: that feeling of looking at his trusted captain, that instinctive confidence that fills him from head to toe which tells him that everything's going to be okay, even if they weren’t at the moment, because Oikawa’s _here_ and on _your_ side and he’s going to bring out your one-hundred percent and _more_ , no matter what.

Iwaizumi exhales. He reaches out and flicks Tooru’s damp bangs instead of cupping his face with both hands like he wants to. “Now we get you shoes. Then a haircut. Then we try to find where the nurse put your shit. Then… well, you’ll see. C’mon.”

This time, when Iwaizumi bends down, he clasps one arm around the back of Oikawa’s thighs and lifts him up, hoisting Tooru bodily over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes with his ass in the air. Leaving the hospital gown and everything non-essential behind, Iwaizumi heads off again, almost with a new spring in his step.


	8. of haircuts and reminiscing

Tooru nods with a smile as Hajime lists his plans for the day, raising an eyebrow when he ends the sentence without explaining, looking down at him in confusion when Hajime bows down, only realising his plans when an arm reaches around the back of his thighs and he’s pulled over Hajime’s shoulder, yelping once more as he reaches out for the nearest thing to hold on to for stability, clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly. Hajime doesn’t seem to have a problem lifting him, and he’s reminded of the bruises on his back, letting go of the shirt carefully, trying not to press at the bruises accidentally. Then he looks down.

The way Hajime holds him — slightly humiliating as it is — gives Tooru a perfect view of his lower back, ass, and, with that, the gun sticking out of his back pocket.

Tooru crosses his arms, still hanging down Hajime’s back, his chin resting on his forearms as he stares down at his ass— _gun,_ the gun, definitely that—while Hajime walks, seemingly in a better mood than before.

He pushes his lower lip out in a pout even though he knows Hajime can’t see it from here, looking down at the gun again.

“Did you ever use it? On another person, I mean,” he asks, loud enough for Hajime to hear while they’re like this, thoughtfully eyeing the gun. He keeps his tone neutral, as casual as he can, genuinely curious rather than worried this time. He doesn’t like admitting it, but there’s _something_ attractive about the whole casually walking around with a gun in your back pocket (it definitely has nothing to do with Hajime’s ass), and even though he was too busy being weirded out by how Hajime was working on the gun before as if it came to him naturally now, like more normal to him than _not_ being armed, Tooru has to admit that how Hajime had put it together so quickly was _kind of_ cool. A lot had changed while he had been in a coma, he knows. It’s only natural that Hajime had learned new stuff, but Tooru still feels behind, and he hates that feeling. He’ll have to work extra hard so he can catch up and be of help. Tooru can do that. Stretching his arms, he reaches down to grab the gun, but freezes just before touching it, for a second scared that it could go off if he did something wrong and shoot Hajime in the butt. He remembers what Hajime had mentioned about the safety being on, he still feels about it, so he crosses his arms again, raising his head to look where they’re going.

 

* * *

 

Oblivious to the contemplation going on behind his back, Iwaizumi takes them quickly past the laboratory areas and into the emergency stairwells. Here, there is no light at all save for the faint illumination of the exit signs at every landing interval, and he ignores every twinge and lance of pain his protesting torso gives as he maneuvers their way slowly down the stairs. He knows the layout of course, down to the number of steps: thirteen down onto a small landing, then turn right and down another twelve steps onto the third floor. Repeat.

As he curls an arm around Oikawa’s legs, hand gripping the flesh of one thigh right below Oikawa’s rear to steady him, Iwaizumi gives the question some thought. It’s not until they’re three-fourths of the way to the second floor that he finally replies. “I haven’t murdered anyone in cold blood, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

His other hand, the one gripping the handrails, twitches fractionally as he thinks back. A short humourless laugh escapes him.

“There’s a guy-- a friend, Michael, I call him Mike-- back in town who still gives me shit for shooting at shoulders instead of the heart and head.”

Iwaizumi’s voice turns soft. “He was on leave from his tour of duty when things went to hell. He’s the one who taught me how to maintain my gun properly. He’s also one of the few people who insisted on getting my full name right. A good guy. Haven’t seen him since the bandits took the town, I-- I really hope he’s all right.”

Another short pause, and then Iwaizumi grunts, pulling himself back from his memories. “Anyway, even against people like the bandits, I… I found myself shooting at their legs instead. That way, even if the dead got ‘em, at least I wasn’t the one who did the actual killing, you know?”

He snorts, a derisive sound. “‘M fucking useless, I know.”

A big number two on the wall materialises in front of them, and Iwaizumi pushes on the door. Light spills across the stairwell.

As he steps into the sunlit corridor, Hajime suddenly stops. He curses mentally, kicking himself. He’d forgotten this was Oikawa he’s confiding to, Oikawa-- who still didn’t know about the walking dead.

Careless. _Careless._ This is the second mistake he’s made today, what with accidentally showing Tooru his injuries, and now this.

Immensely irritated with himself, Iwaizumi grits his teeth and shuts up, continuing onward until they’re past the reception area. Here, the hospital is actually relatively untouched, no wires or pipes trailing down broken ceilings, nothing on the walls apart from bulletin boards or paintings. Even the floor’s clean enough for Oikawa to walk on, the only thing on it a layer of dust. No bodies either.

Iwaizumi sets Tooru down here. His voice is gruffer than usual as he turns away. “Over here.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru grimaces at the directness of his answer, instantly feeling bad for ever doubting Hajime — he’s not even completely sure he ever did doubt him, but that doesn’t make the bad taste in his mouth go away. He had asked the question out of curiosity, understanding — or, well, imagining that he could understand — that there are some situations where you’d have to kill to survive. He wouldn’t blame Hajime for self defense, especially not after hearing about the hospital massacre he had been a witness to, but hearing that even after all that, after all Hajime has been through, he’s still somewhat of a softie inside, makes Tooru feel oddly happy. Hajime had always been the more empathic one of the two of them, telling Tooru out whenever he went over the line, and even as kids Tooru remembered how Hajime always ended up letting go the bugs he caught, pitying their shorter lifespan. It’s a bit strange to Tooru, since being able to put oneself in other’s shoes has always been more of a tool to further Tooru’s own agenda, but Hajime’s sympathy is still one of the best things about him in Tooru’s opinion, and knowing that _that_ hasn’t changed makes him happy.

“If he could teach you how to do it, he probably knows how to take care of himself,” Tooru says, an attempt at comforting Hajime, even though Hajime knows better than him about the odds of surviving outside nowadays.

He’s not sure he understands hajime’s sentence about the dead, figuring he was just mixing his Japanese up with English after probably having had to speak English for all this time unless he, by some miracle, had found other Japanese speaking people in the town.

“If you shoot them in the leg, there’s still a chance for them to survive, right? Death isn’t certain,” he says, another feeble attempt at comforting, even though he knows Hajime probably knows this better than him, not aware that he’s completely misunderstanding Hajime’s sentence about the dead getting to them. He thinks to himself for a moment before laughing, shaking his head. “Well, I guess it _is_ certain, everyone has to die at some point,” he adds, following Hajime with light steps, once again not enjoying how cold the floor feels under his bare feet, wishing that it was at least carpeted.

“I know the main goal is a pair of shoes, but the second you see some socks, please give them to me,” he says, keeping his tone as serious as possible, as if finding a pair of socks are of utmost importance, only half joking about it. He lifts his arms up to hug himself, feeling colder than he did before the shower despite being better dressed now. His hair is cold too even though it’s no longer dripping wet, but at least he has a warm meal to look forward to later if Hajime was right about those candles. And hopefully a pair of shoes to wear if they’re lucky enough to find some.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi clasps a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder to let him know his attempts at comfort aren’t wasted or unappreciated, but otherwise remains quiet. Tooru doesn’t seem to have noticed his slip-up, for which Iwaizumi is glad. Even if it’s stolen time, he still wants to spend as much as he can with this Oikawa. People now were two things: before and after the apocalypse, and being with the Oikawa from before makes Iwaizumi feel like he’s able to regain what humanity he’s lost.

Or maybe that’s just Tooru himself. He’s always made Hajime feel and act in ways no one else could make him feel and do.

“You’ll need a larger weapon too, like this one.” Iwaizumi adds over his shoulder, patting the handle of the machete. “The pocketknife works in a pinch, but since it’s also opening our food I’d prefer it as a last resort.”

He opens the last door labelled ‘cloakroom’, then steps aside for Oikawa. “Ta-da.” he says dryly, borrowing another English phrase.

The room is long and narrow, lined on each side with racks and hangers. There’s sparse gaps dotted throughout the lines of clothes, which is Iwaizumi’s doing. He squints down the room. Yesterday he’d been in a great hurry, and had only grabbed the clothes he could see instead of heading further in.

“Hang on, I think there’s more ahead.”

He steps over scattered garments and walks briskly down the corridor, disappearing among the racks.

About three minutes later, there’s a gunshot, loud and sudden and completely out of nowhere. Then Iwaizumi’s disembodied voice echoes over the room.

“Oikawa! Over here!”

In a spacious side room with a plaque on the door saying LONGTERM, Iwaizumi grins triumphantly up at one of the many narrow cupboards. In his hand is the gun from when he’d shot the lock off said door. In front of him is a small storage space labelled ‘401-- OIKAWA, TOORU’.

 

* * *

 

Tooru eyes the machete when Hajime points his attention to it, scrunching his nose at the thought of having to use a weapon like that against other people. Well, it’s not like he’d be more comfortable with using the pocket knife anyway, he thinks, so he doesn’t reply, simply following Hajime into the room, looking at all the racks of clothes lining the walls, suddenly hit with the realization that most of their former owners are probably dead.

He must’ve stopped in his tracks at some point, looking for something of use when he hears the resounding noise of the gunshot, raising his shoulders to his ears, surprised at the sudden loudness of it.

Hajime’s following words are like a wave of instant relief, the tone more excited than horrified, and Tooru follows where he had seen Hajime go earlier and where he thinks he heard the call from until he reaches the longterm-room, entering and eyeing Hajime’s raised hand with the gun until he spots the storage space with his name on it, instantly walking over next to Hajime, joining him next to it, reaching inside for his stuff.

He pulls out his sports bag, opening it and exhaling in relief when he spots his sneakers instantly.

He puts them on the floor and, after a moment of thinking, sits down next to them after realising that he’ll probably have to go through the contents on the bag while still in this room, and his legs are already aching.

There’s a pair of ankle socks in the bag too, and he pulls them out before looking further into what’s in the bag. “Thank you, past me for bringing extra socks,” he whispers, pressing his hands together as if speaking to some higher being — or just his past self — before instantly putting the socks on and returning his attention to the bag. There’s a newspaper, dating almost four months back, folded on the page with the small comic strip and a half-finished sudoku showing, and Tooru tosses the newspaper aside instantly, figuring it won’t be of need now. His phone charger is in the bag too, the one he had bought with the American power plug, but he can’t seem to find his phone either. There’s a book in there too, in English, since he was trying to get better at that before everything happened, but it looks unopened and he ignores it, reaching down past his wallet, passport, and insurance papers, for the small pack of gum, pulling it out of the back and offering it to Hajime.

Pulling the bag closer, Tooru notices the bulge at the side of the bag, and when he pats it, right where the side pocket is, he smiles widely, pulling out his phone and showing it to Hajime. “There it was,” he says, putting the phone down at his side and grabbing the shoes, putting them on.

“I have sports tape and a bit of ibuprofen in the bag too, if that can be of use?” he asks, pushing the bag towards Hajime for him to see before resuming the process of tying his shoes, fingers slightly shaky.

 

* * *

 

He takes the gum from Oikawa automatically, and because he’s got nothing better to do, he looks down at the wrapping, making out the letters slowly.

“‘Cactus...mint…’” he reads aloud, and frowns. “How’s that different from regular mint?”

He doesn’t unwrap a piece to find out; during food shortages (the frequency of which are completely dependent on how many rations the town’s scavengers bring back) chewing gum helped stave off the edge. Not for long, but still, it helped. He and Oikawa have enough food for a while, but they’re survivors living day to day now, and even such a throwaway luxury in the old days such as gum ought to be used to the fullest in these times.

At the sight of Oikawa’s phone, he chuckles a little; Hajime will always have a fondness for that particular shade of aqua, and at the mention of ibuprofen and the tape, his expression brightens even more as he checks the bag. Any additions of medical supplies these days is a good thing to hear. “Oh, nice. The tape’ll come in handy, definitely, and we can save the ibuprofen for fevers.”

He pauses as he catches sight of Oikawa’s shaky fingers, and even though he’s already itching for them to be out of there, he crouches down instead.

“Doin’ okay?” He clicks his tongue in self-annoyance. “Tsk. Should have brought the water bottle with us. Oh, well. We can rest a while here.”

Actually, wait. “Well, _you_ rest. I’ll be right back.” Before Oikawa can stop him, Iwaizumi’s bouncing up and away, movements swift and smooth. He skirts the racks of clothes and exits the cloakroom, heading for the nearest office and washroom. The scissors are easy to find, scattered amongst toppled office supplies.

The mirror is a little more tricky. There’s no handheld ones anywhere, at least none that he can find, so Iwaizumi acquires the next best thing.

When he returns to Oikawa four minutes later, he’s got another grin on his face. Scissors swinging idly from one finger while the other hand grips a sizable shard of mirror before he holds out both to Tooru.

“Punched a bathroom mirror,” he explains smugly, not even aware of his scratched knuckles. Little hurts didn’t really register on his radar anymore. ”’cause I’m subtle like that. Don’t cut yourself.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru turns to look up at Hajime when he returns, gasping when he sees what he’s holding out and hears his words. He reaches out, not for the things held out, but for the hand holding the mirror shard, grabbing Hajime’s wrist instead of his of the mirror offered to him.

“Iwa-chan!” he says, voice turning shrill in exasperation. He pushes himself up to stand with the help of his other hand, legs barely shaking as he straightens up, leaning in and pulling at Hajime’s hand to get a better look at it.

“It could get infected, or seriously affect your pl—“ Tooru stops himself before he can finish, letting go of Hajime’s hand and turning around with a sigh, bowing down to grab his bag again. “You’re usually the one with the bandaids and stuff, I don’t really… have much else than the sports tape,” Tooru mumbles, turning to look back at Hajime, wishing that he had at least packed some wet wipes or _something_. He reaches up, carding his fingers through his hair, stiffening when remembering that it’s still longer than what he’s used to, letting his arm fall to his side again. The fact that Hajime is grinning so smugly as if he’s _proud_ doesn’t help on his mood either. “At least wipe that smile off of your face, idiot,” he says, snorting when he realises how unlike himself he sounds, grabbing the scissors from Hajime.

“Should we do it here, then? So we won’t make a mess in the room, or—“ he begins, looking around in the small sideroom. Maybe they should go back to where he had showered, there could be something of use. Or at least some cold water for Hajime to hold his hand under if that’s what he needs.

 

* * *

 

The opportunity is too good to pass. “What are you, my mom?” Iwaizumi asks, the shit-eating grin on his face only widening as he mimics Oikawa’s favourite saying to him, carefully keeping away from the thought of his actual mother. Then, seeing that Oikawa really was a little upset, he sobers up, rubbing at his knuckles as Oikawa lets him go.

“It’s not that bad.” he reassures. “Look, it’s not even bleeding anymore.” Still, he applies pressure to the little cuts, for appearance sake. It is a little strange for their roles to be reversed; for a moment, Hajime is hit with a sense of deja vu. Before Oikawa had introduced him to volleyball so many long years ago now, this had been the norm for them. Hajime was the reckless one, running off any and everywhere on his quest to catch every insect ever, with Tooru just behind him, hand in his, fretting over him whenever Hajime inevitably tripped and skinned his knees or fell out of a tree and bruised himself. Somewhere down the line their positions had changed, yes, but the fundamentals had not. That they were essentially each other’s moms was a laughable truth, but a truth nonetheless.

Iwaizumi takes the mirror shard from Oikawa, pushing at his shoulders to make him sit again. Why does he keep standing, dammit, he needs to conserve his strength. “Stop being restless, here’s fine.”

He holds up the shard in front of Oikawa’s face, at eye-level. “Come on then. Watching you constantly fiddle with your hair is reminding me of high school all over again. If you can’t bear to chop it off, allow me.”

After a moment, he adds, looking serious. “... hey, cut it as short as you can make it.” Iwaizumi takes a deep breath. “I’m going to show you why after we’re done here. You uh… you don’t want anything being able to grab you by the hair. Not if you want to live.”

 

* * *

 

He’s in the middle of pushing his hair away from his face again when Hajime points out his newly developed habit, and Tooru instantly lets his hand fall to his side, looking to the side guiltily, caught in the act.

He sits down when Hajime pushes his shoulders, opening his mouth to argue, but figuring that he shouldn’t really complain about being allowed to rest his legs, and if he has to _cut_ his own hair, sitting down is probably smarter if he wants to focus completely.

When Hajime holds out the mirror, Tooru grimaces instantly, leaning back.

“I look like shit, why didn’t you—“ he stops, reminding himself that Hajime probably still has other priorities than Tooru looking his absolute best (or, in this case, just not at his worst), since even back before all this happened, Hajime would be groaning every single time Tooru tried fixing his hair when he caught his reflection on smooth surfaces. For once, Tooru would actually rather not have to look into the mirror. Not only does his skin look lifeless, or the bags under his eyes dark blue, but his hair is worse than he had anticipated — he really has been underestimating the power of a good haircut. Not only is his hair too long in all the wrong places, it’s also been cut incredibly blunt, like someone — Hajime, probably — had just went in and cut his hair with a pair of dull kitchen scissors. The scissors, disappointingly, looks more like something from office than medical equipment, so Tooru isn’t sure they’re much sharper than whatever Hajime had used earlier, but now that he’s awake, it’ll at least be a bit easier to cut his hair so it won’t look too horrible.

Pressing a lock of hair between his fingers, Tooru stares into the mirror, raising the scissors to begin. He finds himself unable to actually cut it though, looking up at Hajime.

“How short are we talking?” he asks, but after a moment of thinking, he hands the scissors to Hajime. “I guess I’ll let you do it, but—keep your jealousy in check, Iwa-chan! Giving me an ugly haircut will not solve your problems,” he says, pushing the scissors into Hajime’s hand and grabbing the mirror from him, turning around so he can cut the back.

“Remember how horrible my hair looked in second grade? I refuse shorter bangs, and it can’t be too short at the top either,” he says, raising the mirror in front of himself so he can look up at Hajime despite being turned away from him. “If I can run from all of my fans, I can run from whoever we’re fighting,” he jokes. Even back in high school with awkward run-ins with his fan club, he had never had any actually bad or uncomfortable experiences with any of them. But even so, he can’t really see why his hair would be in grabbing danger as long as it isn’t any longer than he used to have it. He can deal with choppy ends from the dull scissors, but if he has to deal with a really bad haircut on top of that, Hajime’s reasoning needs to be solid.

 

* * *

 

“On second thought, maybe I’ll just shave your head in your sleep. Or do a bowlcut.” Iwaizumi muses as he tilts his head from side to side, gauging the length of Tooru’s hair and how much to cut. “I mean, without your _thousands_ of bottles of hair product, even if I cut it right it’s still gonna be obnoxious. Less than when you do put product on it, but still.”

He runs his fingers through Tooru’s hair, combing it out between his fingers gently, and as if to prove him right his fingers snag onto a tangle right then. Hajime withdraws his hand, picks up the unruly lock of hair, squints at it… and then shrugs and lops it off unceremoniously.

The sound of scissors slicing through hair fills the air as Iwaizumi combs Oikawa’s brown locks back into a short ponytail and snips the entire thing off at the beginning, just to freak Tooru out. He can’t help chuckling a little, “Hold still,” before really setting to work.

He doesn’t say this out loud, but he’s seen Oikawa with his hair wet and lying flat on his head, and that’s the image that Iwaizumi tries to base his styling off of. It helps that Oikawa’s hair is still fairly damp, and Iwaizumi knows from experience that after it’s dried it won’t look so ridiculous. Already the snipped locks are curling a little; that’s the thing about Oikawa, Iwaizumi thinks-- obviously his hair is styled, but he works with what he has. He brought out the best in not only people, but even in inanimate objects apparently, including hair.

God.

There’s a few minutes of concentrated silence as Hajime moves around, sometimes crouching, sometimes tilting Oikawa’s head this way and that with light taps to his visage, sometimes muttering a deadpan “oops” under his breath just for fun. He’s actually keeping Tooru’s words in mind as he tries his best not to make Oikawa look stupid, though of course he doesn’t show it.

(At least, he _thinks_ he doesn’t show it. The tip of his tongue is sticking out a little, like it tended to do when he was concentrating. Hajime remained unaware of it.)

“Done.” he says gruffly after a while, tousling Tooru’s head just a little bit more roughly than he normally would once he’s finished, shaking stray strands away and brushing them off the back of Toou’s newly bared neck. Standing over Oikawa, he eyes the mirror and tucks the carefully trimmed bangs over one ear before clapping both hands over Tooru’s cheeks and smushing his face between his palms.

“There, I cut it the way you wanted. Now say thank you, you ungrateful little shit.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru breathes in, slightly anxious for Hajime to start, grimacing when he hears the sound of the scissors cutting through his hair the first few times until he gets used to it.

He keeps the mirror raised, lips slightly parted, waiting for Hajime to fuck up so he can call him out or complain about it, but despite his joking, Hajime instantly gets serious about it, focused on cutting his hair properly, and Tooru is half too fascinated to try and make conversation while he’s at work, half scared of breaking Hajime’s concentration. Every time he utters an ‘oops’ or other signs of having made an accident, Tooru raises the mirror shard to try and assess the damage, but every time he finds that Hajime didn’t _actually_ fuck anything up.

When he finishes, Tooru squeezes his eyes shut as Hajime ruffles his hair, leaning away from his touch so he can check out the result in the mirror. He’s so rudely forced to look away, back at Hajime, when his cheeks are squished, and he pushes his lower lip out in a pout, staring back at him.

“I guess it’s not half bad,” Tooru admits, reaching up to try and fix the mess Hajime made by tousling his hair, but finding that it didn’t really ruin anything, simply ruffle it so it can dry completely less slowly. Turning to look up at Hajime again, Tooru smiles, feeling relieved and closer to his old self than he has since he woke up. The cut isn’t the same as what he’d prefer or what he’s used to, but Hajime isn’t wrong either when he says that Tooru relied on hair products for that exact result, something that still isn’t high on their priority list, at least for now. Somehow, Hajime had found a haircut that worked okay without, even a bit shorter like he had told Tooru he needed, and it _still_ didn’t look like the disaster he went through as a kid.

“I don’t understand why Iwa-chan lets his own hair stick out in every direction, or maybe you can only do it on others?” Tooru eyes the scissors before he looks back at Hajime and his own hair, still longer than what Tooru is used to seeing, still also in need of a cut of its own. “Do you want my help with yours?” he asks, lifting up the mirror again, offering it to Hajime.

 

* * *

 

“Mine?” Iwaizumi echoes questioningly. For some reason he hasn’t really thought about his own haircut, though now that Oikawa mentions it, it is much longer than he’s ever had it. He takes the shard and eyes his reflection critically, moving it so he can see his whole head. Yeah, it is kind of long, at least by his standards.

“I’ll give it a shot first. It’s just cutting the length, how difficult can it be?”

He balances the shard on top of Tooru’s hair and then takes a handful of strands from the back of his own head and begins snipping at it willy-nilly. Once the handful of hair was shortened, he grabbed up another handful and repeated the process. The result of treating his own head like an unruly shrub is that the going is much faster than Oikawa’s had done, at the expense of his newly cut hair being more stuck up than ever, like they’re even more gravity-defying without the extra weight.

As for his own bangs-- unlike the care he put into trimming Oikawa’s-- he just pulls them straight and then cuts twice, diagonally and in opposite directions. The reduction in length is immediate and obvious-- and not at all flattering, though Iwaizumi finds he doesn’t care about that quite as much as he cares that his hair is now out of his eyes for good instead of tickling just above his lashes.

“What do you think?” he purses his lips at Oikawa, grabbing another handful of hair over his forehead and raising the scissors again.

 

* * *

 

Tooru reaches up over his head to hold up the mirror shard better, grimacing when Hajime begins to cut his own hair, going at it carelessly.

“At least cut it the same length, Iwa-chan!” he hisses, holding the shard in one hand and reaching out to grab Hajime’s wrist to stop him from doing any further damage.

“I didn’t mean your hair was a lost cause, it’s just—“ Tooru doesn’t want to admit that he actually always quite _liked_ Hajime’s hair, not just because it was so soft without all the products most people (Tooru included) used, or that it pretty much defied gravity _without products_ , but because despite all that, it really did suit him. Even the longer hair hadn’t looked _that_ bad, but now that Hajime is just going at it, Tooru suddenly fears for the future of it.

“You may not care, Iwa-chan, but _I_ still have to look at you all of the time,” Tooru says, pulling at Hajime’s hand to stop him from cutting more hair off, shaking his head. Realizing how bad Hajime _could’ve_ been to his hair, Tooru suddenly feels even more grateful for Hajime’s concentration, but the reminder only makes him even more offended at how careless Hajime is being with his own. “ _Please_ let me help you,” Tooru says, blinking up at him with pleading eyes, hoping that the months Hajime had spent without Tooru constantly by his side has made him a little more susceptible to Tooru’s puppy eyes. His success rate had dropped a bit over the years, but that isn’t going to stop him from trying. He tightens his hold around Hajime’s arm, putting down the mirror shard with his other hand and pressing the hand against the floor so he can move his legs, changing his position so he’s sitting on his knees again, eyeing Hajime’s now asymmetrical bangs worriedly.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi makes the mistake of looking down at Oikawa (whose eyes seem to have somehow become the size of saucers) instead of continuing snipping with the scissors.

“Stop that, you know that doesn’t work on me.” he says, feigning a scowl, even as he gets to his knees in front of Tooru. Oikawa’s puppy-eyes don’t work on him, Iwaizumi tells himself, it’s just that it’s far easier to give in than to listen to Oikawa persist, that’s all.

He looks at Tooru again, and then sighs, relinquishing the scissors.

Yeah, okay. Oikawa’s damn puppy-eyes _do_ work on him. He can admit it now that he’s out of high school and isn’t so oblivious and somewhat in denial of his feelings towards Oikawa anymore. He used to think it was a matter of pride; Iwaizumi couldn’t possibly like someone with _that_ kind of personality, he couldn’t possibly fall down the same trap as one of Oikawa’s _kyaa_ -ing fangirls… and then they’d graduated, and he’d matured a little, and during one drunken night with his friends at a bar he’d had a revelation, and it’s that _guess what_ , turns out Iwaizumi’s probably Tooru’s _biggest_ fan, considering that after all these years he still drops everything and comes running as soon as Oikawa calls for him.

And why wouldn’t he do so? Oikawa Tooru has a shit personality, but that doesn’t mean he’s a _bad_ person. He’s _amazing_ , in so many ways, he--

Iwaizumi suddenly startles, realising he’s been staring for way, way too long at Oikawa’s face. He looks away immediately, wanting to clap his palms to his own cheeks to snap himself out of his reverie, but since Oikawa will ask what’s up, Iwaizumi just settles for punching himself mentally instead. One good thing about having feelings for Oikawa for this long (since high school, and probably earlier) is that Iwaizumi doesn’t even blush at these kinds of thoughts anymore. They come naturally to him, always have, and since he turned twenty almost three years ago he’s stopped feeling mortification at them and accepted that it’s just part of his thought process now.

See? Maturity.

As he rests his hands on his knees, he gradually shifts to sitting cross-legged; it’s more comfortable, and now Oikawa is slightly above his eye level, which should make it easier for the hair-cutting.

“You done yet?” Hajime asks, fidgeting. About twenty seconds later, he asks again. “How about now?” And then fifteen seconds later, “Now?”

 

* * *

 

When Hajime finally gives in, Tooru grabs the scissors from his hand, leaning in and combing his fingers through Hajime’s hair, starting from where Hajime had already gone through it, cutting off little at a time in an attempt at making it somewhat the same length.

He’s pretty lucky, since Hajime’s hair is simpler to cut than his own, so he basically just has to cut it the same length everywhere. He’s pretty sure Hajime could cut his own hair almost as well himself too if he really put in the effort and had a better mirror, but since Hajime is being just as careless about his looks as when they were younger, Tooru is more comfortable with doing it himself. It’s unfair, really, that Hajime can look that good without putting in any effort, but even he can’t make a straight out horrible cut work.

Tooru puts two fingers under Hajime’s chin, tilting his head up so he can assess the damage already done to his bangs, relieved to see that it isn’t _completely_ unfixable. If he wants it to be somewhat the same length, it’ll have to be a bit shorter than what Tooru would like, but he figures it’ll grow out again soon enough and reaches up with the hand not holding the scissors, pressing the hair between his fingers to make sure he’s cutting it as straight as he can, stopping to give Hajime a sharp look when he continues to ask when it’s done.

“If you would _let me work_ maybe it wouldn’t take this long,” Tooru grumbles, even more grateful that Hajime wasn’t being this impatient with Tooru’s own hair, moving over to Hajime’s back and cutting the hair at the back of his head and his neck. He blows the hairs that fell down onto his neck away, brushing over it with his fingers to make sure there isn’t any left, keeping himself from keeping them pressed against the warm skin, realising how cold his hands still are.

When he deems the job finished, Tooru puts his hands on Hajime’s shoulder, tilting his head to the side to see if there’s anything he missed. He raises both hands again, cutting off another smaller chunk of hair before ruffling Hajime’s hair with his other hand, making sure that the hair that he just cut off falls down to the side.

This time, when Tooru leans back, he grins widely, leaning back down in a sitting kneel instead rather than standing on his knees.

“Done!” he says, putting down the scissors, proud of his accomplishment. “Now Iwa-chan’s hair is back to its usual spikiness! Saved by the great Oikawa-san!”

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi isn’t going to lie to himself anymore: he made that promise when he took his feelings for Oikawa in stride… which is why he can’t deny it when he feels his face heat up just a little when Tooru tilts his chin up to scrutinise him. It’s not that Iwaizumi is unused to being the target of Oikawa’s attention; it’s just that Oikawa isn’t in the habit of targeting his _concentrated_ attention on him, and being in the centre of Oikawa’s gaze comes with the odd sensation of being under a microscope, like he can see right through Iwaizumi without even trying, like he’s baring Iwaizumi without asking.

It’s fine, because Hajime is willing to give without question. Still though, he suppresses a shiver at the warm air on the back of his neck and the cool fingertips against his skin. It’s unfair, what Oikawa does to him without even knowing.

“Finally.” he says as he lifts the shard to examine his reflection. And Oikawa’s right, he did somehow manage to fix most of everything that Hajime had butchered. There’s a small gap on his forehead where Iwaizumi’s first cut had just been way too short to do anything else with, and it looks kind of obvious, but overall…

“It’s socially acceptable, I guess.” Iwaizumi says airily. He passes a hand through the strands, thinking that he actually does look a little different. Not so raggedy, and his face and expression just a little more open. A bit younger.

“... reminds me a bit of, uh… Karasuno’s captain during our last year. Sawamura, I think. Remember him?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru scrunches his nose, nodding just once.

“I remember everyone who can receive my serve with that amount of precision,” he says, then shaking his head at the comparison. “Iwa-chan is far more handsome than Sawamura,” he says, motioning in the air with his hand as if physically attempting to wave off the topic, the comment meant more as a jab at Karasuno’s captain than a compliment to Hajime. In reality, Tooru _did_ respect Karasuno’s captain, more than most other members of his team, or many of his other opponents through the years. Sawamura had been a solid all-rounder with an even more solid receive, but even back in high school, Hajime had been as well — with the added fact that he was also a talented wing spiker. And Sawamura wasn’t ugly by any means, he was just… _average,_ nothing like Hajime, even in this state.

Using both hands to push himself up from the floor, Tooru stands up again, brushing invisible debris off of his new outfit, shaking his head to make his hair go back to its natural state.

“What were you going to show me?” he asks, offering his hand to Hajime to help him up, but instantly worrying that he’s actually going to take him up on the offer — holding up his own weight is enough trouble as it is, and he’s not sure if he could actually pull Hajime up with him or he’d just end up falling on top of him.

Okay, maybe he can if he really tries, but he’s already exhausted from their small trip to this area of the hospital, and now that he has his shoes, he’ll actually have to walk back too. Instead, he points to the bag, holding out his hand again as if asking for Hajime to hand it to him after realising that he forgot to grab it when he stood up. If Hajime was serious about leaving as soon as possible, they should just bring his bag back to the room so they could prepare to pack already.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi snorts at the compliment, letting it slide past him because he knows Oikawa well enough to know it’s got nothing to do with himself and everything to do with Daichi instead.

When Oikawa offers his hand, Iwaizumi automatically reaches up to grab it out of habit, but remembers himself at the last moment when his eye catches sight of the blue veins stretched visibly across Oikawa’s thin wrist. He ends up just brushing Oikawa’s palm with the tips of his fingers while he gets to his feet, and then hoists Oikawa’s bag over his own shoulder without another word, chivvying Tooru out of the room.

Before he follows him out, Iwaizumi turns back, taking one last look around at all the personal belongings left behind.

“You go on ahead, I’ll be right there.”

He’d spotted a medium-sized mountaineering bag, and thinks it will come in handy. He crosses the room and pulls it off its shelf, rifling through it, apologising aloud as he takes out the owner’s personal belongings and putting them back. Then he hoists the empty bag over his other shoulder and joins Oikawa.

By the time he does, the light-heartedness from the past hour seems to have dissipated from him. Something of a cross between resignation, tiredness, but also resolution settles over his demeanour, and though he’s no longer smiling, his back is straight.

“I’m going to show you what the infection did to the world.” is his answer to Oikawa. He gazes at Tooru as they stand together in the deserted corridor of an abandoned hospital, sunlight streaming in through one of the windows and bathing them in warm sunshine. Before he can stop himself, Hajime steps into Oikawa’s space, raises one hand to Oikawa’s cheek. His catches Oikawa’s gaze and holds it. Iwaizumi opens his mouth--

\--and then swallows what he’d been about to say. His hand drops, and he steps back.

“I’m sorry for what you’re about to see.” he says instead. “Come on, there’s a room that overlooks the courtyard.”

He takes the lead, keeping a pace that’s not too fast for Oikawa. The room he’s heading for is another patient’s room, this one a double room. The window there is a large one, and opens directly out at the front of the hospital, giving a perfect view of the courtyard, the driveway, and the hospital gate entrance to the road and beyond. Iwaizumi knows the undead will be milling about as they always did, shuffling and swaying. From the second floor, they’re close enough for Oikawa to get a proper look, to even get a whiff of rotting flesh. By this time, more walkers should have wandered in from the outside, filling up the courtyard and replacing the ones Iwaizumi had cut down on his way inside.

The door to the room is in good condition, just like the rest of the second floor. Iwaizumi opens it quietly, and then perks up a little at the sight of his sniper rifle lying by the window. He’d forgotten about it completely until now, but this was how he’d been crowd-controlling the walkers outside. Carefully trimming the horde, keeping it just manageable enough that he can make his way past it with the help of a noisemaker distraction, but large enough that it deterred others from entering the hospital.

Iwaizumi crosses the room, and steps up beside the window. The curtains are pulled most of the way shut, but the window pane itself is pushed all the way up. A breeze blows gently through, bringing with it a vague stench, and the faint noises the dead occasionally made.

He beckons Oikawa nearer, brushing aside one of the curtains with a finger.

“They can’t hear us up here unless we raise our voice, but don’t make any sudden movements.” Iwaizumi says lowly. “Keep out of sight. There might be eyes outside the hospital, too.”

He takes a look outside, and can’t help hissing in dismay. There’s _much_ more walkers wandering around outside than was usual. A horde must have just passed through last night.

Short term, this was good. Bandits would be more likely to skip this place when they searched this area. But long term, it meant imprisonment within the hospital for Iwaizumi and Oikawa if they let the small horde surrounding them continue growing without check. Their sanctuary would become a tomb if the walker crowd swelled to a size that they couldn’t fight or sneak their way back out.


	9. revelations (and a kiss)

When Hajime returns to his side from where he had went back into the room, the atmosphere seems to have shifted. Not only is he wearing some stranger’s backpack — a _dead_ stranger’s backpack, his mind helpfully adds, and despite the fact that they probably won’t be needing it, it doesn’t really help Tooru feel any better about it. And he knows Hajime, knows how ridiculously righteous he has always been, and once again he’s reminded of how much things have changed while he was in a coma. He has no idea what Hajime has been made to do to survive — Hajime’s admittance to having been the one decapitating those people from earlier comes back to Tooru’s mind, but he pushes the thought away instantly. He’s not sure he wants to know what Hajime has been through.

Following Hajime, Tooru is suddenly much more aware of how relaxed he had gotten for that small moment, but now the tension is back, and while his steps are still purposeful, he doesn’t seem as excited as before.

At least the sunshine filtering through the window of the corridor warms his skin a bit while Hajime explains what he’s about to show.

For a short moment, Hajime steps closer and Tooru is frozen on the spot, unable to do anything but stare back a Hajime when their eyes meet and all Tooru can hear is his own elevated heartbeat thumping in his ears, and he wonders if maybe, just maybe—

Hajime steps back, and all Tooru can focus on as he apologises is the hand Hajime lets fall to the side.

After a moment, Tooru realises that Hajime has started walking already, following with a huff as he places his hand on his chest, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal and a feeling of disappointment falling over him, even though he isn’t sure why.

When they enter the room, the first thing Tooru notices is the smell — not unlike the one from before, except less contained, mixed with fresh air too. Still nauseating, Tooru thinks, reminding himself that if he could keep in his meal after seeing dead bodies, this smell and whatever Hajime is going to show him shouldn’t be a problem to him.

When he steps further into the room, he spots the rifle too, but decides not to comment on it, instead stopping in his track at an odd, almost pained noise from outside.

He forces himself to continue, following Hajime to the window, growing more and more confused by the second at Hajime’s words.

And then he sees them.

Tooru remembers what Hajime had said. About most of the world being dead. Yet, there’s a large group wandering around, most bowed over, limping, some missing limbs, covered in—in the same stuff Hajime had been when he had first walked into Tooru’s room.

Reeling back, Tooru turns to look at Hajime, horrified.

“Are they… how are they still alive? Shouldn’t we help them?!” he whispers, but it comes out as more of a hiss. He takes another quick peek, but instantly has to look away, frowning deeply in confusion. They look like just a gust of wind could push them over, killing them — in fact, they already look dead. Out of instinct, Tooru takes a step closer to Hajime, close enough that he only has to lean in to touch him. Turning away from the window, his mind already racing through all the possible scenarios he can make up, Tooru looks at Hajime. They look like corpses — except corpses can’t move. The dead don’t walk.

“I— _Iwaizumi_. What is going on?”

 

* * *

 

“That was my first reaction, too.” Iwaizumi says quietly, the bitterest of smiles crossing his face. “To help them.”

He’s no longer looking out the window, though he still keeps the curtain pushed aside, his eyes fixed on Oikawa instead. “This is what the infection does to you, Tooru. If you get infected-- from a bite, from getting any of their fluids into your bloodstream-- you die. The fever burns you to nothing. And then you _come back_ , but not as yourself, just as… one of those things.”

Iwaizumi grips Oikawa’s arm, his gaze sharp. Outside, the wind picks up a little, bringing in fresh moans and the pungent stench of putrefaction.

“The very first one I met was one of my classmates. He was a mortician’s assistant assigned to this facility too. He’d hung himself from a tree, and everything below his knees was gnawed off, but when I saw him... I cut him down because he was still moving.”

Iwaizumi grits his teeth. “If he’d been able to walk, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. All because I thought I was helping him.”

He gives Oikawa a small shake, momentarily forgetting his own strength at the urgency of making Oikawa realise the reality of the world, his fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises. His voice is a low hiss, the expression in his eyes uncharacteristically vicious as he talks about the monsters that ripped away their world and turned it into a hellhole. He has to make Oikawa understand, he can’t let Oikawa be hurt by one of those things because Iwaizumi didn’t drive home the point that there’s nothing they can do to _help_ what had long ago died. Nothing they can do, except put them to rest for good.

“Ninety-six percent of the population are dead, Tooru, but they’re still around, they’re still here. Trust your eyes. Trust your senses. Look at them, _smell_ them. They aren’t alive. And they’re _dangerous_.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru isn’t sure if it’s because of his decrease in muscle mass, or if Hajime is intentionally putting in enough strength to hurt him, but whatever the reason, Tooru flinches, pulling his arm away in attempt at escaping Hajime’s grip.

He doesn’t move that far away, though, instead simply turning his entire torso away from Hajime, looking towards the window but instantly regretting this action, squeezing his eyes shut and raising his chin as if childishly trying to ignore the truth right in front of him. Even with his eyes shut, he still hears their groans, and now that he’s aware that the stench is indeed their rotting flesh, the nausea returns tenfold.

The worry for their families and friends back in Japan that he had somewhat managed to suppress resurfaces, and it feels heavier than ever, and Tooru feels _helpless_. He’s still pretty much useless, unable to even care for himself without Hajime’s help, and if Hajime of all people — strong, resourceful, unyielding — hadn’t been able to check up on their families, Tooru was unlikely to have any better luck. His entire family being dead was no longer the worst scenario, it was that they had turned into… whatever the things in the courtyard were.

“What happened to your classmate then?” he asks. _Did you kill him_? he doesn’t ask, but that’s what he’s thinking, once again thinking back to the decapitated corpses from the hospital corridor, to Hajime admitting that he was the one who had done that. His anger doesn’t stay very long though, dissipating almost instantly when he puts two and two together. Tooru isn’t interested in dying just yet, but — the sound of limping footsteps and muffled groans from the courtyard entering the room with another gust of wind — it’s better than the alternative. Had Hajime done that to the corpses to help them? Or to keep Tooru safe?

The new information changes everything — Hajime hadn’t just been keeping Tooru alive and a secret to the other people he had lived with, he also had to have kept these—whatever they were away from him. He had kept Tooru from being turned into one of them too.

The information is a bit too overwhelming, and dizziness makes Tooru stagger slightly, stepping back from the window, turning towards the door.

“Can we go back to the room?” he asks, still not looking at Hajime, not knowing _where_ to look, how to feel — angry? grateful? terrified? — or what to say to him. He’s beginning to feel less and less happy about having woken up from that coma, even though part of him knows that he wouldn’t have survived it for much longer. And Tooru being in danger means Hajime putting himself in unnecessary danger. No matter how little he wants to face this right now, he’ll have to at some point, if not for himself, then for Hajime. He wants to be mad at him, or scared of him, but he can’t help but think of how _alone_ he must’ve been, or of all the things he’s experienced, much worse than he had priorly imagined. He closes his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to look up at Hajime, not bothering with forcing up a smile when he knows Hajime can see through it. “Please?”

 

* * *

 

“Does it matter what happened to _it_?” Iwaizumi retorts, more harshly than he’d intended. It’s not until Oikawa turns away from him that he realises he’s gripping Tooru far too tightly, and he lets go reluctantly, already sorry, but still more worried than apologetic as he tries to read Oikawa’s expression. The fact that Oikawa had even asked that question shows he’s missing the point; it didn’t matter what had become of the classmate, because the classmate had _died,_ the end _._ The classmate wasn’t the one that had grabbed at Hajime’s leg and tried to take a bite out of him, it was the thing his classmate turned into that had done that.

Now, what Iwaizumi fears is that Tooru won’t be able to accept it, that Tooru doesn’t believe him, not completely. And that is the most dangerous thing of all, even more than the threat of bandits, even more than the dead themselves: not being able to stop seeing the walkers as the people they had been before.

He looks back at Oikawa, keeping his own intensifying worry shuttered behind a stoic mask, because for once he can’t get a handle on the extent of Oikawa’s distress. This new world is a hard thing to accept, he knows-- _god_ , he knows-- but Oikawa needs to do it, for his own sake. Some of Iwaizumi’s colleagues had taken their own lives rather than face the outside world: that was how they’d learned the hard way that it wasn’t just the bitten that turned into walkers, but that _any_ of the freshly dead became them too. That knowledge had led to even more despair, but at least people started putting bullets in their brains instead of slitting their wrists or hanging themselves and unwittingly joining the ranks of the undead.

Iwaizumi can’t let Oikawa become one of those people. He just can’t.

“No.” he forces himself to say, his heart wrenching at the plea, at the look in Oikawa’s eyes. “Not yet. We’re not finished here.”

He grabs Oikawa by the wrist-- less forcefully this time and without hurting him, but still firm-- and pulls them both away from the window and out of the room, not giving Tooru a choice in the matter. Once again they take the emergency staircase, into the dark.

Iwaizumi takes them both down to the first floor, where the worst of the chaos is. There’s overturned gurneys and papers everywhere, exposed wires and pipes dangling from the cracked ceiling, glass and debris littering the floor. The door to the main entrance of the hospital is completely boarded up and barricaded with couches and carts, as is every single window. Iwaizumi had done it all himself: this is the ground floor after all, the most dangerous floor. In the lobby, at least a dozen corpses are strewn in various positions among the wreckage: slumped against the wall, lying on the floor, both face-down and face-up. All of them are missing their heads.

“You have to stop thinking about those things as people, Tooru. It’s the only way to keep going.” Iwaizumi says, keeping his voice low. This is the moment he’s been putting off; he’d known it would hurt to see Oikawa like this, to finally expose him to the truth, but he hadn’t imagined that the ache would cut this deep. Still, he pushes on, unrelenting. If he needs to _make_ Oikawa accept reality, even by force, then he will, because the alternative is a fate that Hajime cannot even bear to think about.

He brings them past the lobby, down a side hallway that led to the emergency rooms. That entire area is off-limits as well-- the emergency room is where every bitten patient had been brought to at the beginning of the outbreak, and Iwaizumi had not dared to tread there, knowing that that had been the place where everything had first spun out of control when the patients started attacking the nurses and doctors. The doors to that area are heavily barricaded as well, and padlocked. Nothing would ever make Iwaizumi unblock them, knowing that there’s an untold number of walkers still in there, waiting in the dark.

In any case, they’re not what he’s here for. The hallway leads out to the east side of the hospital, where a small side-door is. Outside that is a path leading to the courtyard, but there’s a locked fence separating the two sections, and the entire area outside the door is out of the way, essentially inaccessible to anyone who was not an employee at the hospital.

Point is, unlike the courtyard, there’s very few walkers outside the side-door at any given time.

Point is, the size of the door and the narrowness of the hallway makes that entire corridor a chokepoint.

Point is, if Iwaizumi opens that door, he’s able to handle anything that comes through it, provided they came in ones and twos, at most threes.

He tugs Oikawa with him until they’re about twenty-five meters from the door. Then he turns to Oikawa, dropping his wrist. He also drops Tooru’s bag, the backpack, and the sheath of the machete after he pulls out the blade. It glints in his hand as he takes out the gun as well, flicking the safety off before returning it to its position.

Once Iwaizumi has nothing on him except the weapons, he faces Tooru. His eyes are hard, the set of his jaw resolute.

“Wait here.” he says. “Whatever happens, don’t raise your voice. I’m going to show you something you need to see.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru lets himself get pulled along, using his other hand to cover the lower half of his face when they exit the staircase again, overwhelmed by the smell of rotten flesh again.

All he can do is try to hold his breath and stare as they walk through the area, watching the enormous mess, trying very hard not to look too close at the corpses.

The interior of the ground floor is in a much worse state than upstairs, and it reminds Tooru of the reality he’s facing. Even though it feels like he was admitted to the hospital not long ago, it’s been _months,_ and the entire world has changed since then, not just the hospital. Tooru no longer knows what the outside world looks like, and he’s beginning to think that it isn’t much prettier than what he’s been seeing up until now.

His eyes land on the body of a smaller woman, head missing and no other visible injuries than that. He opens his mouth to ask, say something, but nothing comes out, and it isn’t until he feels Hajime let go of his wrist that he looks up and realises that they’ve stopped.

He looks down the narrow hallway before returning his attention to Hajime, gaping when he sees him drop the bags, freezing when he unsheathes the machete. The small click of the safety of the gun wakes him up again, he instantly shakes his head, taking a step forward, reaching out towards Hajime.

“No, Iwa-chan,” he says quickly, gritting his teeth. “Please, let’s just—lets go back to the room okay? you don’t have to show me anything,” he says quickly, desperate, because it’s not _that_ hard to guess the main points of Hajime’s plan simply from the location and the fact that he just readied his weapons.

Tooru has already had to walk through rooms full of beheaded corpses, well aware that Hajime was the one who had done that to them. He _really_ doesn’t want to also have to watch him in action against sick people.

He still doesn’t understand the exact details, _what_ exactly had happened to the people infected, except for the fact that Hajime addresses them as dead _._ Tooru can only assume — and hope — that it’s just a metaphor for being so far gone that they couldn’t be saved like Tooru had been, and not _actually_ dead. This is real life — Tooru reminds himself, despite how surreal it feels — not some bloody zombie game. He has no clue how the people can still be walking when their bodies are in that condition, or _why_ they were just walking around aimlessly, groaning like, well, zombies. It could be some mental symptom of the disease for all he knows.

And Tooru had almost ended up like them, he realises. If he hadn’t been treated so early on, if his treatment hadn’t helped, then—would Hajime had done the same thing to him? Or would Tooru have turned into the same as the people walking around in the courtyard? Closer to death than alive? Would Hajime had separated _his_ head from his body before that happened?

“Iwa-chan,” he tries again, his voice lower, shakier this time. He feels as dizzy as he had when he had just woken up, except his mind is clearer now and he has food in his stomach, food that would very much like to get out of there, if the acidic taste in his mouth was anything to go by. “Iwa-chan, please,” he repeats, begging, swallowing the bad taste in his mouth and spreading his feet slightly for stability.

 

* * *

 

He’s got his sights on the door, every nerve in his body humming as he exhales and sets his mind to the task before him. His head is clear, his breathing and heartbeat completely steady. He knows what he has to do, knows exactly how to do it. It’s just like one of his scavenging operations: plan and execute, simple.

Except Oikawa calls to him, and Iwaizumi can’t help but turn back. And looking at the uncertainty, the _disbelief_ in Tooru’s eyes, Hajime can’t bring himself to leave him, not like that.

He turns back, lowering the machete. Iwaizumi’s gaze softens, some of the hardness in his eyes leaving him as he raises his free hand once more to Oikawa. Tooru’s shoulder is warm under his palm as he brushes a thumb across the skin that the shirt doesn’t cover.

“Tooru,” he says quietly. “Hey.”

Oikawa looks ill, disoriented, still reeling from the view at the window. Iwaizumi knows exactly how he feels. But it’s not enough. Oikawa doesn’t believe what he’d seen, and who can blame him? Iwaizumi wouldn’t have believed it either should their positions be switched. It had taken only one thing for him to be convinced, and now he can do the same for Oikawa. Here and now Oikawa needs to see for himself, up close, exactly what a walker is. And unlike Iwaizumi, he doesn’t have to be in a life or death situation to do so.

His hand ghosts over Oikawa’s shoulder until it reaches the back of his neck. Gently, Iwaizumi pulls him close, his thumb rubbing soft comforting circles.

There are words he wants to say, words he _should_ say. Words like ‘are you alright?’ and ‘I know’ and ‘it’s okay’. But the question he asks-- the one that matters the most right now-- is, “Do you trust me?”

And in that moment before Oikawa answers, Hajime feels a flicker of fear course through him at the thought of the answer being ‘no, not anymore.’ Oikawa’s seen his handiwork with the corpses; Iwaizumi isn’t so oblivious that he doesn’t know what that looks like to someone who doesn’t know exactly what the infected are.

His throat tightens, suddenly aware of his heart thudding in his chest. Is Oikawa afraid of him? Iwaizumi won’t ask if he thinks Hajime is some kind of monster now, at least not before he’s shown Oikawa what the real monsters look like, but the question burns in his throat.

 

* * *

 

Tooru stiffens at first at the use of his given name, completely different feelings coursing through him this time. The hand on his shoulder is a small comfort, but he can’t say that physical contact doesn’t help, or the worry in Hajime’s expression. He lets himself be comforted, his heartbeat slowing down and his anxiety dissipating.

He wants to snort at the following question, almost offended that Hajime would ask him that, but after a moment he figures that in this situation, it’s fair — Hajime _had_ changed — but despite it all, his entirely different demeanor, his looks (the haircut and the many, many injuries), or just the simple fact that they hadn’t been together for three months, something Tooru had never actually experienced since before they met, despite _all_ that, Hajime is still Hajime, and Tooru is still Tooru. Which, obviously, means that he trusts him with all of his being.

Taking a deep breath, Tooru leans in even further towards Hajime, comforted and instantly calmed by the physical contact. He exhales deeply before looking up, nodding just once, his gaze unwavering. Tooru would trust Hajime, even if he held the gun to his temple or the machete to his throat.

Whatever Hajime has to show him, he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t deem it absolutely necessary. Once again, he’s reminded of all the things Hajime had done for him, not just during his coma, but their entire life. Tooru can at least do this for him now.

Forcing up a small smile, Tooru hopes that it’s as comforting as he tries to make it, that the flicker of doubt he had seen in Hajime’s eyes is long gone. Just to be sure, he mimics Hajime’s movement, reaching a hand up to Hajime’s neck, placing it there gently, both scared of touching a bruise and aware that he’s going to pull away to demonstrate whatever he had planned in a moment.

“Always,” he says, before swallowing again, trying to prepare himself for what he’s about to see.

 

* * *

 

It just... happens. Something untwists in his heart at Oikawa’s answer, at his reciprocation; one look at the shift from doubt to trust in those familiar brown eyes, and Hajime’s pulse is thudding for an entirely different reason. His next move is purely instinctive, unfiltered, unthinking.

They’re already so close that by the time that Iwaizumi’s head catches up with his heart, he’s already closed the remaining distance between them and pressed his mouth to Tooru’s, the hand on the back of Oikawa’s neck relaxing, fingers curling into the soft hairs there. Hajime’s eyes slip briefly shut of their own accord; this is nothing like the last time they’d kissed, last time was--

\--last time. The time he’d kissed Tooru without consent… and then left him for dead.

Iwaizumi rips himself away from Oikawa, stumbling a little, guilt coursing through him like he’s been doused in ice. He presses the back of his left hand against his mouth while re-affirming the grip he has on the machete, which had slackened just a bit.

“S-sorry, I shouldn’t have-- done that.”

He doesn’t look Tooru in the eye, turning instead back towards the door, trying to quiet his thundering heartbeat and get himself back on track. Fuck, he keeps doing things he shouldn’t around Oikawa. What the hell is wrong with him?

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath, striding towards the door. Focus, he can’t get off track now, not during the task he’s about to undertake. “Stay here. Don’t come any closer until I tell you to, and don’t go outside.”

His pulse is still racing, but he’s got it under control now. Iwaizumi pulls aside the stretcher blocking the door and pushes it to the side of the wall. When he opens the door, he shoves half of the stretcher so it’s sticking out the doorway, and then opens the door fully, stepping outside.

He stands outside the entrance and leans on the door to keep it fully open. Tensed, eyes flicking over the yard. To his left is the locked fence: no chance of attack from that direction. To his right, it’s as he expected, there’s only one, two, three… nine walkers in this section. He’s sure there’s more around the corner, but that’s a ways off.

Nine. It’s more risky than he’d anticipated, but not something he can’t handle. They’re spread out, which works just fine. If there’d been only five or six, he could let one inside the hallway and shut the door on the others. With nine, he’ll have to trim the number a bit.

He moves away from the door completely, letting it swing shut onto the stretcher. This way, the way in is both blocked and held open by the stretcher.

The noise from opening the door earlier had already drawn the attention of four of the dead. A fifth is stirring, getting up from the ground. The rest of them are still a fair distance away.

Iwaizumi’s mouth quirks into a slash that’s more grimace than smile as he raises both the machete and his voice.

“Oi!”

He doesn’t need to do anything else to catch their attention. The closest one comes at him, one of its arms swinging limply. Iwaizumi waits until it gets within five meters and then pushes off the ground in a running start. The machete smashes down deep into the woman’s skull and she drops like a stone.

The second walker is a nurse missing one leg from the shin down, and Iwaizumi runs past it. He trips her without slowing down, swinging at the third one, a man in a suit, coming in right behind. The blade embeds itself into the side of its head, and it falls. Iwaizumi whirls, drives the tip of the machete through the eye socket of the nurse. The fourth walker is easy, a thin emaciated teenager in a hospital gown just like the one Oikawa had been wearing. Iwaizumi cuts him down without hesitating.

He turns to deal with the fifth walker now lumbering towards him, ready-- when suddenly the third one, the one in the suit, suddenly grabs at him from where it’d fallen, a rattling issuing from its throat as it grapples at his leg, growling.

Iwaizumi bites down on his shout of surprise, realising too late that he hadn’t gotten entirely to the brain. He kicks at Suits so hard the entire jaw shifts two inches to the left and half its teeth go flying into the grass. But it doesn’t let him go, broken nails digging hard into his jeans, and now the fifth one is coming at him, lips completely rotted off, teeth champing.

Iwaizumi ducks, throwing himself onto Suits. He tumbles to the ground, scrambling to get onto his back. The angle twists the walker’s torso as it tries to follow him, and Iwaizumi slashes with the machete, and this time its skull caves in. It goes still.

That’s when the fifth walker lunges on top of Iwaizumi. It’s a man, taller and heavier than him. Its eye sockets are gaunt and sunken, the flesh peeling off its face, but its eyes are wide and pale and fixed on him. Its hands reach out, clawing.

Iwaizumi gets the machete up just in time, bracing the blunt edge with both hands right between its teeth. It falls onto him, trying to bite his face even as the blade of the machete cuts into the corners of its mouth, exposing more of its pale gums and teeth. The edges of its tongue are ragged and chewed, like it had tried to eat itself. A blast of its stench hits him, something black dripping from its mouth onto his neck and chin and chest, and Iwaizumi’s stomach roils.

Hajime struggles, snarling, trying to kick the dead weight off his legs. “Son of a-- get off me!”

He feels the gun pressed against the small of his back from where it’d been knocked from his pocket. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the four other walkers getting closer, drawn by the commotion. Summoning all of the strength in his arms, Iwaizumi heaves with all his might and _rolls_ the walker, using its own weight against it as he regains the upper hand.

It’s too late to go for the gun. With a curse, he slams the machete into the roof of its mouth, driving it in deep. Chest heaving, he struggles to his feet, panting. Thirty meters away, the final four walkers continue their unsteady but relentless way towards him.


	10. revelations, 2

Tooru is frozen in place when Hajime closes the distance between them, his pulse racing in his ears so loud that he hears nothing else than that, and for a moment he wonders if Hajime can hear it too.

He only has time to close his eyes before Hajime pulls away from the kiss as if burned, an unreadable expression on his face. Tooru isn’t sure if his expression is actually that difficult to read or he just short-circuited himself, but before he has any time to even open his mouth, Hajime has already apologised, turning away from him.

He takes a small step forward out of instinct, to keep him from moving any further away, but when Hajime orders him to stay still, he stiffens again, trying to remember how to open his mouth and speak.

His skin is still burning where Hajime had touched, the back of his neck and his lips, and he slowly reaches a hand up, pressing his fingers against his mouth, as if to savour the sensation.

He’s pulled back into reality when the door smacks against the stretcher, and after listening in silence, he stumbles forward when he hears the commotion outside. He’s well aware that he had told Hajime he trusted him and that Hajime had told him to stay back, but too worried to do as said. He walks into view just as a man — no, that word doesn’t quite describe the creature anymore, with flesh peeling off its face and almost animalistic movement — jumping on top of Hajime, and Tooru closes the distance to the door, still blocked from the outside by the stretcher.

Turning his attention to the door, Tooru’s heart is once again beating so loud it almost blocks out Hajime’s snarls and the sounds of fighting — _almost_ — and just as Tooru manages to push open the door, he hears them roll over, Hajime now on top of the infected man.

“Iwa-chan!” he calls out, pushing the door further open, and just as he is about to push away the stretcher to come to his rescue — exactly how, he isn’t sure of yet, his plan isn’t exactly well thought out, mostly just save Hajime first, think later — the machete is jammed up through its mouth and the body goes limp.

Tooru stiffens, eyes only now flicking over the other corpses, one wearing a nurse’s outfit, another with the same hospital gown Tooru had been, except in much worse state, covered in dried out blood and the same rotting indents that Hajime had been when he had first entered Tooru’s room, skulls smashed in. Tooru turns to Hajime again, eyeing the now darkened blade of the machete, unsure of where he had put the gun, since it was no longer sticking out of the pocket.

Then, a groan pulls his attention, and he looks up into the faded irises of another infected, mouth agape and broken jaw hanging to the side, already turned towards him.

 

* * *

 

The thing about walkers is that they could be horribly, surprisingly fast. Thirty meters seemed like a fair distance at first but once you took into account that there were four of them coming towards you with a speed driven by animalistic hunger, the gap tended to close pretty fucking fast.

And then he hears Oikawa’s call.

So do the walkers. Iwaizumi’s pulse spikes as two of them immediately change course, heading straight for where Tooru is standing in plain sight behind the stretcher.

“Oikawa, goddammit _close the door_!”

With a snarl of fury at the sight of the walkers converging on Oikawa, Iwaizumi leaps, not even bothering to pick up the gun. He rams into the walker closest to Oikawa so hard its skull cracks off the side of the building, putting himself between the infected and the entrance.

When he swings the machete, it cuts through the walker’s neck so completely that the blades screeches off the side of the hospital wall. The body drops. Three left.

Iwaizumi blocks a lunge with the machete and _punches_ the second walker in the face. It stumbles; he cuts it down. Two left.

“Alright, assholes,” he mutters. “Which one of you wants to die first.”

Adrenaline is still coursing through him, numbing everything else. Iwaizumi ducks the outstretched hands and kicks hard at a knee. As he’d expected, it cracks, bending in the opposite direction. The walker tumbles to the ground and Iwaizumi jumps out of reach, fending off the attack of the last walker by driving the machete into its shoulder and pushing it back. Its guttural growls fill the air, its irises pale, sclera dirtied with rot.

Iwaizumi shoves it back, throwing all his weight onto it. This time he’s the one who pins it to the ground, and while it’s there, he finishes it off.

A drop of sweat runs down his face as he gets slowly back to his feet. The walker whose knee he’d broken is struggling to stand. He walks back and stamps a foot down on its back, and then proceeds to hack its arms off from the elbows.

The sun beats down on him and the rest of the scattered bodies as Hajime finally looks back towards the doorway, keeping the groaning walker beneath his boot firmly pinned down. His voice is breathless as he finally calls, “Okay. Come on out.”

 

* * *

 

When Hajime yells at him to close the door, he’s pulled out of the staring contest with the person — or what was left of it — moving closer, almost instinctively doing as Hajime says, letting go of the door so it slams right back into the stretcher. Tooru pushes the door open again, focusing on pushing the stretcher out of the way again, eager to help despite Hajime’s words.

Problem is, he probably did overestimate his own strength, because not only are his legs shaking again from the very short jog he did to the door, but his arms are aching with exhaustion too, and the stretcher is just as heavy as it looks, quickly proving to be a feat to pull out of the way. Despite how hard it is, Tooru continues trying, pushing while keeping the door from closing or getting the stretcher stuck again, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the sounds from outside, a mix of thumps, bones breaking and furious snarls, not so discreet now that Hajime isn’t keeping quite as quiet as before. He’s only just managed to push the stretcher out of the way when Hajime calls for him, and he pushes the door completely open, wiping nonexistent sweat off his forehead as he steps out, instantly blinded by the sun.

He squints for a few moments as his eyes get used to the light, moving in a wide circle around one of the bodies towards Hajime, spotting the gun on the ground. He bends down, picking it up carefully, holding around the shaft but making sure not to touch the trigger, remembering that the safety is off, before he continues moving towards Hajime again, looking down at the infected lying in front of Hajime, still alive and pinned down by his boot.

He scans the area once more, grimacing at the sight of the bodies strewn all over the place, too aware that they were put there by Hajime just now.

“What now?” he asks when he turns to look at Hajime again, eyes flicking down to the man still pressed down by his boot before he looks at the machete in his hand, blade still darkened by rotting guts. He suddenly regrets picking up the gun.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi’s eyes keep flickering to the far side of the yard, ever wary of more walkers turning the corner. He had wanted to let one or two of the infected into the hallway and take them down there (hence why he’d kept the door propped partially open with the stretcher), so Oikawa could look at them up close at leisure, but things hadn’t gone quite according to plan. That’s the thing about infected; no one could predict exactly what would happen when confronted, and sometimes even the most well-laid plans could go to shit.

The coast seems to be clear for now though, and even if a horde did come suddenly into view, they’d still have plenty of time to get back inside. All is well, for now.

Iwaizumi glances down at the gun, and then his eyes flicker back up to Oikawa. Pressing his heel even more firmly on the back of the walker’s neck, he grunts.

“Take a good look at it.”

He leans his full weight onto his foot. Something creaks in the man’s neck, and then snaps. The walker takes absolutely no notice, eyes still fixed on Oikawa as it gnashes its teeth and struggles with its diminished arms.

“Tell me, does this look alive to you?” he asks Oikawa, almost demanding. “Think it’s still just a sick human being? Look at its injuries. Could a living person survive that, much less be completely unaffected by them?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru grimaces at the sound of bones snapping, eyes widening when the man simply continues to struggle to get free, paled irises still fixed on Tooru despite how Hajime is holding it down. He takes a step back, almost dropping the gun but tightening his grip before it happens, looking at the cut-down arms still wriggling in an attempt to get free.

He accidentally looks at its open wounds a bit too long, turning to look up at Hajime, dizzy once more.

“How can he—it—still be moving?” he asks, looking at one of the other bodies instead, now completely still, with matter spotting the ground around the smashed-in skull. Hitching for his breath, Tooru forgets to only breathe through his mouth, and the rotten stench hits his nose once more, sending another, more urgent wave of nausea over him. Hajime is right — even Tooru, who doesn’t know shit about any of this can see that the guy and the other bodies that had moved a bit earlier were already decomposing, none of them even close to looking alive. Covering his mouth, Tooru swallows again, trying to fight the acid reflux and the bitter taste it leaves in the back of his mouth. He looks back to the man who’s still gnawing away, desperately trying to make his way towards him, and he shivers involuntarily. “What is he doing?”

 

* * *

 

“It wants to eat.” Iwaizumi answers, dully. “Whatever the infection is, it kills you first, and then brings you back with the barest amount of brain activity. All that’s left is the primal urge to gorge itself. And what it wants is living meat, for some reason. It won’t stop either… it’ll keep eating until its stomach bursts.”

He exhales, then reaches down and twists his fingers into the hair of the walker-- some of the scalp tears off, but he readjusts his grip until its head is yanked back all the way. Eyes gaunt and staring, throat bared. “So don’t let one bite you. Once you’re bit, that’s it. Game over, unless the bite’s on the arm or leg and you take it off immediately.”

He’s been watching Oikawa closely, and knows from the grimace on Oikawa’s face that he’s probably close to vomiting. Iwaizumi doesn’t blame him.

He sends a quick mental apology to Tooru, and then with a cut, slices the walker’s throat in front of Oikawa, deep enough that bone can be seen when Iwaizumi yanks back the head still further.

The walker barely notices, continuing to snap. Which is the point, of course. Oikawa has one last lesson to learn.

“The only way to kill them is to destroy the brain. Nothing else works.”

Iwaizumi finally lifts his foot and lets the walker’s head drop. It’s only connected to its body now by bone and the barest bit of muscle and sinew: its legs and arms twitch and jerk, but it no longer has the ability to stand, or even struggle.

Wiping the machete clean on the walker’s pant leg, Iwaizumi walks to where Oikawa is. He holds out the blade.

“Here. You kill it.”

And then he pauses. ‘Unless you want to use the gun.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru shakes his head instantly at the proffered machete, not even looking at it, still too focused on the infected’s neck, the way it’s somehow _still_ twitching desperately, eyes looking in Tooru’s direction even though it can’t even move its head to look properly.

Tooru raises the gun, stretching his arm in an attempt at making his hand shake less, a finger hovering over the trigger. He can’t even make himself look up at Hajime, disturbed by how _calm_ he sounds. He’s not stupid, he knows what this is, Hajime trying to properly beat into his head just how serious the situation is. Most likely, Hajime won’t do it for him, even if he asks, and even Tooru’s own desperation for the infected person to just _stop moving_ is growing, the fact that he can feel his esophagus contracting not helping much.

He takes a deep breath, raising the gun and aiming towards the infected’s head, relieved that he’s so close hitting it won’t be an issue.

Then he pulls the trigger. The recoil has him stumbling backwards, sending a jolt of pain through his stretched arm, more out of unpreparedness than because it’s actually that bad. The loudness of the gunshot has his ears ringing too, but the only thing he can focus on is the now limp body in front of him, and the massive gunshot wound in its forehead.

Tooru turns to the side, bending over just in time to hurl out the contents of his stomach on the ground, acid making his nose sting. The colour of the tomato sauce and the texture of the chewed beans doesn’t make his nausea go away in any way, and he retches again, leaning over and puking out more of the food he had spent so much time trying to keep down, feeling dizzy once more, leaned over with his hands on his knees, relieved that at least he won’t accidentally get any puke in his hair now that it’s shorter again. He holds the gun out, hoping for Hajime to accept it, while trying not to swallow with the horrible taste still filling his mouth, eyes stinging with tears.

“Can we—“ he coughs, wiping his mouth with his free hand, “—Can we go back inside?” he asks, suddenly desperate for water, closing his eyes so he won’t have to look at the vomit pooling in front of him — or the bodies surrounding them. He’s immensely relieved that he no longer has to listen to the snapping or groaning of the infected, but only until he realises that it’s because he just put a bullet to his head.

Tooru bends over again, and this time it’s more stomach acid than actual food coming out, stinging all the way up his throat, making his eyes water again.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, watch out for the r--”

Iwaizumi winces for Oikawa when the recoil hits him; it’s not actually that bad when compared to other guns that Iwaizumi’s fired before, but for someone who’s never even handled a gun, it is unexpected. The sound is always louder than in the movies too.

He’d begun moving as soon as he’d started his sentence, and doesn’t even bat an eye when Tooru vomits and leaves the remains of his breakfast onto the grass. Once upon a time he might have twitched his nose at the sound and the smell, but now that he’s had walker innards smeared on himself and seen people shit themselves when they died, bile and vomit isn’t an issue for him anymore.

He stands in front of Oikawa, taking the gun, flicking the safety back on and then sticking it back into a pocket. All this is done without thought; he moves into Oikawa’s orbit seamlessly, brushing his bangs back and massaging his temples softly.

“Yeah, we can.” he murmurs. “Well done, Tooru.”

It’s probably not what Oikawa wants to hear. It’s not what Hajime wants to say. Watching Oikawa’s face as he’d pulled the trigger, Iwaizumi realises something new: that he doesn’t want Oikawa doing deeds like this, at all. The purpose of this whole trip had been to start introducing Oikawa to get used to killing the dead, but now… now Iwaizumi finds that he’d _loathed_ the look on Tooru’s expression. He feels a new resolution being borne within him, a fool’s resolution. That whatever dirty work has to be done, he’ll do it in Tooru’s place instead, spare him from all this as much as he can.

It’s stupid. It’ll be impossible to reinforce forever, with walkers everywhere. Doing it might be worse for Oikawa in the long run, hold him back.

Iwaizumi’s going to try anyway. Because he’s a sentimental fool, and he doesn’t want this world to ruin Oikawa.

He rubs Tooru’s back all the way back to the doorway. The head of the walker he’d beheaded has opened its eyes and is still snapping, but Iwaizumi pays it no mind, only kicks it away before he pulls the stretcher back into the hallway and lets the door swing fully shut.

“There’s a washroom that’s not covered in blood close by on the first floor, but I don’t like staying down here for too long.” Iwaizumi admits as they make their way back through the halls. “Want to go to the one on the second floor instead?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru leans into the touch tiredly, instantly comforted by the closeness, letting Hajime lead him back into the building, away from the fresh piles of corpses surrounding them. Or, well, not _that_ fresh. They’ve probably been dead for a while, but suddenly the decapitated ones inside the hospital seem like nothing but a tasteless part of its interior compared to what he had just witnessed.

In fact, Tooru can’t really just call himself a witness anymore. He clenches his fist, free of the gun, trying to remind himself that this is something he needed to know, needed to _do._ For survival. He’s not even that upset about it, and that almost worries him more, the numb feeling drowning out anything else and leaving him heavy-limbed and drowsy, almost like the calm before a storm. He hopes he’s not about to go into shock or something — it’s not like he hasn’t already been inconveniencing Hajime as it is. He doesn’t need to put more problems onto that pile.

When he swallows, Tooru feels a stinging in the back of his throat, really wishing he had some water to rinse his mouth with. He has to stay calm, for Hajime. He has to get used to this, calmly taking out—stopping those things from hurting him or Hajime. If Hajime had been protecting him for so long, not just against bandits, but against flesh-eating _corpses_ , Tooru can toughen up and do this. He has to.

He pushes his shaking hand into the pocket of the sweatpants, leaning in against Hajime’s shoulder again, the proximity at least giving him some sense of calm. His legs are beginning to ache again, the pain forgotten in the face of danger, but it’s returning tenfold again, and he has to force himself not to sit down and take a break on the spot, now much more aware of the dangers involved, why Hajime doesn’t want them to stay down here for too long.

“Sure, let’s go,” he says, disliking how flat he sounds, too tired to even force up a chirpier tone. He feels like there’s something he’s forgotten too, something urgent, from before they had faced the infected, but right now all he can focus on is the taste of acid in the back of his mouth and the slight ringing in his ears from the gunshot.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi nods and keeps a hand on Oikawa's hip, feeling the tremors that runs through Tooru’s body every now and then as Iwaizumi brings them past the winding hallways, back through the lobby, and then up the emergency staircase. The only pause they take is when Iwaizumi picks up everything they’d set down: both the backpacks and the sheath. He slings everything over his shoulders, leaving one arm free to curl around Oikawa’s waist to support him. His legs must be exhausted by now.

This entire trip had taken longer than he’d expected. They’ve been up since dawn, and Iwaizumi had thought it would only take the morning to do what they had to, but judging from the angle of sunlight it’s already noon, maybe one o’clock. That’s all right though. Enough has happened today, and they’ve got plenty more hours of sunlight yet.

As always, Iwaizumi keeps an eye out on their surroundings as he brings them to their destination, but he can’t help glancing at Oikawa now and then. The tone of his answer hadn’t escaped him of course, and Hajime feels a surge of pride for Oikawa then. He’s taking the reality of the world very well, as best as anyone can. At the beginning of the outbreak, he'd seen people go their deaths denying everything their senses told them, refusing to accept fact, refusing to take in the new reality. These people had gotten countless others killed. But Oikawa had done what Iwaizumi asked of him right there on the lawn, without even questioning him, without dawdling, without withdrawing into denial.

That was how the initial survivors had acted, too. Being mentally strong enough to take what the new world threw at them. And Iwaizumi knows just how strong Oikawa is; Tooru won't let this drive him mad, or worse.

“I’d ask if you were alright, but I know you're not.” he says quietly, filling the silence. “But you will be. And you're not alone, not now, not ever. I promise.”

Iwaizumi gives him a small squeeze of comfort before he steps away, opening the washroom door and going in first. Habit makes him scope the place swiftly, even though he knows there's nothing of danger on this floor. One of the lights is broken, but there's a high window that lets in light just fine.

Once again Iwaizumi drops their things as he goes over to the sink to clean himself up. His mouth twists in disgust at the flecks of black walker rot on his throat and collarbones, and he makes two nicks in his sleeves that allows him to rip the fabric off from the elbows down. He wets these makeshift towels and hands one to Oikawa before turning to the mirror and unbuttoning his shirt to wipe the filth off his own skin.

 

* * *

 

Tooru follows, almost mechanically, accepting the offered piece of ripped cloth, watching Hajime begin to clean himself up. He hadn’t even realised how dirty Hajime had gotten, too focused on the dead bodies and the horrible taste in his own mouth. At least Tooru didn’t really need cleaning up, having been inside the hospital during most of the fight.

He leans down over the sink, cupping his hands after turning on the tab, drinking the water from it and gurgles for a moment before spitting it out, looking down at himself. A few dark spots, either vomit or rot, have hit over his lower legs and shoes, dark but not dry yet, and he wipes off his shoe at the side of the pipe under the sink before reaching a hand up to his lips, wiping them off. Just before Hajime had gone out, they had—he kissed him. He turns to look at Hajime, instantly turning away when he sees him unbuttoning his shirt, feeling his own cheeks burn in embarrassment. God, he’s seen Hajime undress thousands of times, and he’s just opening his his shirt, but—Tooru looks down at the fabric in his hand, suddenly feeling oddly redundant, unsure of what to do with it. He had just showered, and he hadn’t been as close to any of the infected as Hajime, not even when delivering the finishing blow. Apart from what had ended up on his shoes, he didn’t seem to have puked all over himself either, so it’s really not of use, meaning he has plenty of time to stand around and think of what had happened _before_ the infected. Pressing his lips together, he wonders if he had forgotten because of the much more urgent matters or he had intentionally repressed it — Hajime obviously didn’t seem to want to talk about it, since he hadn’t said anything to Tooru except comforting him after what he had done on the way up.

Tooru remembers the look on Hajime’s face when he had pulled away, horrified as if he had instantly regretted his decision, and Tooru can’t even begin to understand why. Hajime had been the one closing the distance between them, Hajime had been the one kissing them—he shouldn’t be allowed to be the one already regretting it if he was also the one who had done it in the first place.

Tooru wishes he knew what Hajime was thinking, severely unused to being left not knowing, and part of him wants to blame the months they’ve been apart, how Hajime has changed after the world burned down.

He reaches a hand up to clutch at his chest, his heart hammering away inside his ribcage. Even if Hajime did notice, he probably wouldn’t assume Tooru was thinking about this, not after what had just happened. And it doesn’t seem like Hajime has any issues ignoring it either, seemingly having forgotten it altogether, or at least doing quite a good job at not talking about it. Tooru _hates_ when Hajime isn’t being clear with stuff like this, because he has always been the better one of them when it counted things like being honest with yourself and others, and if even Hajime can’t do it, then there’s no hope for Tooru.

He doesn’t even know how he felt about the kiss, and here Hajime is, already Not Dealing With It before Tooru even has a chance to figure it out. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of a lie. Tooru has kissed quite a few people, but no one has left him feeling like this after, both nervous and frustrated.

He looks back at Hajime, eyeing the several dark bruises on the now uncovered skin, and he’s pulled back to reality. Hajime probably has a _lot_ more urgent matters to think of than, well, whatever prompted the kiss, and it could just be a heat of the moment kind of thing. Or lingering feelings from before all this happened, feelings he no longer wishes to act on, now that the situation has changed.

No matter what, Tooru isn’t going to be the one bringing it up, he decides, turning to look into the mirror himself. And then he grimaces.

He really didn’t think he could look worse than what he had done before, after waking up from a fucking coma of all things, but now he looks positively drained, the only thing making up for the negative changes being his hair, finally dry.

“I’m ready to go back to sleep,” he says. _For another three and a half months,_ he adds in his mind, but doesn’t voice it, figuring Hajime wouldn’t appreciate the humour as much. He really does need to sleep, though, and it’s not like emptying his stomach of the little energy he had consumed was helping much on that matter, especially not since he still felt so sick that he didn’t even want to consider eating another meal anytime soon. All he wants is to return to the room and the bed, and maybe Hajime’s arm around his waist again for the warmth and support.

He blinks at his reflection before turning away again, for once too tired to even try and fix how he looks.

 

* * *

 

He splashes water onto his face, closing his eyes as the liquid drips from his brow down to his clavicle. Once he’s wiped himself clean and scrunched the dirtied fabric into a ball set aside on the sink, Iwaizumi cups his hands under the stream of water and drinks deeply, enjoying the coolness sliding down his throat.

Feeling much more refreshed by the time he opens his eyes again, Iwaizumi looks at Tooru in the mirror as well. He _does_ look drained, shoulders slumped, eyes a little downcast. Iwaizumi feels the inexplicable urge to hold him well up as it so often did, and he moves closer, re-buttoning his shirt as he does. The shirt sleeves look dumb as hell now, but it’s whatever.

“Alright. Let’s go back.” he flicks Oikawa’s forehead gently. It’s a little strange that he can look into Oikawa’s eyes without tilting his head; Iwaizumi prefers looking people straight in the face without simply flicking his eyes up to theirs, which means he tilts his head a lot, especially upwards now that they’re surrounded by Caucasians. He doesn’t need to look upwards quite as much when it comes to Tooru, but he’s used to tilting it a little at least. Right now though, Oikawa’s whole demeanour is sagging so much Iwaizumi doesn’t need to do so. It makes him want to carry Tooru in his arms again.

And that makes him think about the kiss. Iwaizumi swallows. It had been an impulse, but he can’t just run away from what he’d done and act like it hadn’t happened; he’s already put enough on Tooru’s mind today without this adding to his burden as well, and he doesn’t know Oikawa to let anything like this go, not until he got to the bottom of things.

Iwaizumi picks up their things again, then goes backs to Oikawa’s side, waiting to see if Oikawa’s willing to lean on him. He makes a promise to himself to bring up the subject of the kiss once Oikawa’s rested… and to admit that it wasn’t their first. Only this way will Hajime’s conscience be finally clean.

 

* * *

 

Tooru moves to Hajime’s side, for a moment considering leaning in against him again in the hopes that he’d reach around his waist again and hold up some of his weight, but ending up deciding against it when he sees Hajime already holding their stuff, feeling bad about not even being able to help.

Normally he’d be ecstatic about Hajime holding his bag for him, like he is whenever he manages to actually make Hajime do things for him that are normally reserved for couples or parents and children and the like.

The thought makes him think of the kiss again. Back home, where people knew how close they were, jokes about the two of them being more than just best friends weren’t uncommon, and Tooru had never denied them, mostly because he enjoyed the look on Hajime’s face, but also partly because the idea itself _maybe_ excited him a bit. He had never seen it as a possibility, though, never even considered it, not when Hajime was, well, _Hajime_. He had figured that whatever they had built up over the years couldn’t last forever, not when Hajime was meant to go out there and find a beautiful wife and have a beautiful family, when he could have a better life than running around and letting Tooru pull him into all kinds of trouble, mostly cleaning up the messes after them. But Hajime hadn’t left him yet, he had even followed him across the planet — or, well, it was debatable who it really was that followed the other, since Hajime had seemed quite a lot happier about his program than Tooru, who was mostly there for their volleyball team, not studying. A lot had happened since then, though, and even when the entire world had burned down he had stayed, taking care of Tooru like always.

Of all the people he could be stuck in a situation like this with, he’s eternally grateful that it’s Hajime. Tooru can’t imagine being without him in a situation like this, can’t imagine anyone he’d fight as hard for or with. This time, he doesn’t react the same way when seeing the beheaded corpses on their way back to the room, instead filled with a form of relief and a tinge of guilt for ever doubting Hajime. He leans in without thinking, lightly brushing shoulders with Hajime as they make their way back, still not exactly used to seeing the corpses around, but at least understanding the necessity of the beheadings.

When they enter the room again, Tooru is ready to pass out, making a beeline for the bed despite being vaguely aware of the fact that Hajime had preferred barricading the door and would probably like his help, throwing himself directly onto it and rolling over, groaning out loud when his poor limbs _finally_ get a break from having to hold up his body weight.

He remembers his wish for a warm meal earlier, but right now his top priority is a nap, and since it’s still only the middle of the day, they should be able to wake up and go do the rest of what they needed to after he woke up and still be back before it gets dark. Stifling a yawn, Tooru moves over on the bed, making room for Hajime despite not knowing whether or not he’s planning on napping as well, feeling an odd urge to stay near him, nowhere near satisfied with the little contact they had on their way back, working more as an appetizer leaving him wanting more.

“Iwa-chan should sleep too,” Tooru says, this time unable to choke back his yawn, leaning back against the pillow with a huff, eyelids heavy as he blinks slowly, waiting — hoping — for Hajime to come join him.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa doesn’t seem to want his assistance-- that’s just like him, that strength and tendency to rely on himself that Hajime admired and worried over-- but Iwaizumi stays close anyway, keeping to Oikawa’s side instead of leading the way in front on their way back. Oikawa’s legs tremble faintly once in awhile, and when Oikawa’s shoulder brushes against his own Iwaizumi just presses back firmly, not caring if it was intentional or not.

He drops the mountaineering backpack and the machete onto the floor, and puts Oikawa’s pack at the foot of the bed on top of the covers, feeling the entire thing bounce as Tooru flops onto the mattress. Oikawa’s offer is tempting, and Iwaizumi walks over to him, taking in his wistful, if tired, expression. Iwaizumi’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile without him being conscious of it. He pulls a jacket from the clothes trolley and drapes it over Oikawa’s thighs, not wanting to make Oikawa get up just so Iwaizumi can pull the covers onto him properly.

“You rest,” he says finally, making himself pull back after a moment’s contemplation. “I want to go do some stuff first.”

He points to the corner where they’ve thrown their trash: the empty cans, the dirtied towels and clothes, and the stained armour. “It’s unhygienic. I’ll join you after I clean that shit up.”

He reaches down to ruffle Oikawa’s hair until it flops over his eyes, then moves away. Actually, he wants to do a bit more than clear up the mess: yes, he wants to clean that armour for future use, but he also wants to find those candles for Tooru… and he wants to hide the letters he’d written. Hajime had taken them with him when he’d retrieved his stash of food, and they’re still dumped at the bottom of the rations trolley somewhere. There’s not much; there’s a long letter to his parents, another one to his grandparents, and two other pages filled with names. Next to those names are things he wished he could say to those people. Most of them are one or two lines at most, but Issei, Takahiro, two of his closer friends from college, his grandparents, and a couple of others have a paragraph dedicated to them.

As for letters addressed to the Oikawas… there’s nine of them, all at varying lengths, all of them from before Hajime had been left behind by his first group of companions. They’d begun as just letters, but as time went on and Hajime kept writing, they’d also begun to reflect Hajime’s state of mind as well as a log of everything important that had happened. One letter is a half page addressed to Takeru; Hajime’s known the kid since he was born, and he’s just as much family to him as Tooru’s own family is. There’s also two letters to Tooru’s parents, and there’s six addressed to Oikawa alone.

The letter to Takeru, the first one to Tooru’s parents, and two of the ones to Tooru are from the beginning of the apocalypse. Hajime had talked about Tooru’s coma, the descent into panic of the society around him. He’d written to Takeru and Mr. and Mrs. Oikawa, telling them that he hoped they were safe, that he thought of them like they were his own family, and that not to worry, he was going to stay with Tooru and keep him safe for as long as it took for Tooru to wake up.

To Oikawa, he’d written about the details of hiding with him that day the military almost massacred them both, and about everything he was doing to keep Oikawa alive. He’d written about his first group of survivors, their names, the ones he’d liked and ones he hadn’t. He’d written about losing his appetite for two days after killing his first infected. He’d written about everyone agreeing to stick together for safety, to watch out for each other, to wait for the military to come rescue them. He’d written about making tentative friends, about foraging in the woods, about fishing in the stream, about how it all seemed almost like an extended camping trip. Back then, times were hard, but Hajime had been optimistic that Oikawa would wake soon. The doctors said the coma wouldn’t last long, after all, and surely the military would come for them.

The third and fourth letters have none of the faint optimism from the first few letters. Here, Hajime had written about the group’s decreasing food rations, about having to send people back to the city to scavenge for supplies. He’d talked about a growing discontent, and a pair of brothers from the group who’d robbed them all blind at gunpoint and then run off, never to be seen again. He’d written about a horde of walkers that stumbled upon them in the night, how Hajime _had_ been bitten on the arm, but that the walker’s teeth hadn’t been able to penetrate the denim of his jacket. He’d written about how the number of people in the group had been reduced to half by the time they’d killed the horde. He’d written about having to defend himself and his devotion to Oikawa against the others, about having his share of the rations reduced to just himself instead of both him and Tooru. He’d written about being afraid that his companions would start to mistrust him, and that they were all trying to convince him to pull the plug on Tooru. These letters are full of fear and doubt and the uncertainty that Hajime would even live to the next day.

The fifth letter had been penned on the day they’d made contact with the military over the radio. That was the day the kiss had happened. When Tooru hadn’t woken up after Hajime’s pleas, Hajime had written the letter. He’d written down everything he’d asked Oikawa in person: Why wouldn’t he wake? Weren’t they friends, best friends? How could he leave Hajime alone like this, being a constant threat to become a walker himself, to stay hovering just at the edge but never waking up? If he wouldn’t wake even to save himself, even for Hajime, then what choice did Hajime have but to leave first? Can he hear Hajime? Did he even care?

Iwaizumi had folded the paper under Tooru’s limp hand, and written a second letter to Oikawa’s parents. It was left on the bedside, and only had two sentences: _I left your son to die. I’m sorry._

In the end, he hadn’t. But even so, Iwaizumi hadn’t thrown away those two letters. They were shameful, and now they served as a reminder and testament to his resolution that whatever happened, he would live or die at Oikawa’s side.

The sixth and final letter to Tooru was written the next day, after he’d refused to board the helicopter, after he’d fought his way out of the horde. It was short, simple. He’d been covered in blood and filth, exhausted to the bone, completely numb, and resigned to his fate. It only had ten words:

 _Tooru,  
__Still here. We’re alone now._  
_I’ll never leave again._

Five days later, Iwaizumi had come across the survivors from the town. They’d taken him in, and thus began his way of life for the last six weeks, up until Oikawa had woken.

And now here they are. Iwaizumi has no intention of letting Oikawa find out about these letters at all; they would only bring him unnecessary pain and even more guilt, and Tooru doesn’t need to feel that just because Iwaizumi had been weak.

Which is why he wants to relocate them to another hiding place, before Oikawa comes across them. But he can’t really do that while Tooru’s awake, so he pretends to be busy, gathering and straightening things around the room as he waits for Tooru to fall asleep.


	11. revelations, 3

It takes ages for him to actually fall asleep, despite how exhausted he is, both mentally and physically. At least he’s not turning around restlessly, Tooru thinks, too tired to even move an inch, but he keeps seeing the smashed in heads behind his eyelids whenever he closes his eyes, or just replaying the scene in his head, over and over. He’s in a near-sleep state, lulled by the calming sounds of Hajime rusting around in the room doing god-knows-what, about to fall into an actual deep sleep when he hears Hajime rustle with one of the carts, pulling up at the edge of the mattress. In his tired state, he writes it off as Hajime probably just fixing the bed sheet and _finally_ his exhaustion wins against his agitation, and he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

 

When Tooru wakes up, the room is empty and the sunlight is shining into the window, warming up the foot of the bed. He can’t have been asleep for that long, and after what had happened earlier today, he doesn’t believe Hajime would really leave him for that long either without warning him. He could return anytime now, preferably soon so they could get something to eat, Tooru thinks, relieved that his appetite has returned already.

Tooru rolls over, sitting up to look into the carts for something to eat, instantly sensing that something is wrong — or, well, _different._ He doesn’t remember how much food was left, but he clearly remembers the papers strewn in the bottom of one of the carts, now completely gone.

He’s suddenly reminded of when he was just about to sleep and when he had heard the rustling of paper and—

Leaning over to the corner of the bed, he lifts up the mattress, sliding his hand underneath, quickly pulling out the pile of papers from underneath.

He looks through the letters first, checks who they’re addressed to and skips Hajime’s own family instantly, feeling like it’d be a breach of privacy (then again, what he was doing right now could probably also be counted as that), looking at the list of names. Tooru knows mostly the same people as Hajime, a side effect of being pretty much attached at the hip since since childhood, but just from reading a few of them, he’s reminded that this doesn’t mean Hajime has the same relationship with them as Tooru does, closer with some of them than Tooru would count himself. He stops reading when he sees Mattsun and Makki’s names, only now reminded that he’ll probably never get to see them again either.

He snorts when he sees the letter for Takeru, not really surprised to see it, well aware of how close he and Hajime had been — Tooru had once joked about Takeru preferring Hajime over him, his _dear uncle_ , and Takeru had simply looked up at him with a wide smile as if it was obvious.

He finds the letters addressed to himself, trying to put them into correct order for a moment before digging in for real, instantly horrified by the more detailed description of the massacre, remembering how Hajime’s entire mood had changed while reliving the memories. The description of his time with the survivors seems almost nice at first, until Tooru can almost read the desperation growing as more time passed.

When he comes to the letters where Hajime describes leaving him, Tooru feels partly hurt, but even more so he feels bad about how desperate Hajime had sounded. He was supposed to be happy after finally hearing some good news, but there he was, blaming Tooru for not waking up, as if he had any choice in the matter. Tooru knows it’s Hajime’s way of expressing worry, but he still does feel a tinge of guilt for not being there when he needed it the most.

As he continues, finding out what he already knew, that Hajime didn’t leave, that he was still here, obviously, Tooru realises that he _shouldn’t_ be. Hajime had been given the chance to go somewhere else, somewhere _safe,_ and he had considered it enough to write Tooru — and even his _parents_ — an official farewell.

The thought is hurtful, of course, but understandable when you look at the big picture, the situation at hand. What hurts Tooru even more than Hajime planning to leave him is the fact that Hajime _didn’t_ go through with it and left with the remaining survivors, instead choosing to remain back with Tooru and the slim hope that he would wake up at some point. That Hajime basically chose Tooru over his _life_. In fact, Tooru is not just hurt, but furious — it’s not like there’s no chance Tooru will die now (he’s more aware of this than ever now, knowing what’s waiting for them out there), and what does Hajime plan on doing if that happens? Following him?

He almost crumbles the paper together in anger, but stops before any damage is done, throwing the letter onto the bed with the others. After a few seconds of staring angrily at the pile, he crawls down from the bed, pacing around for a little while to work off the anger. He walks back to the bed in the end, fixing up the letters in a neater pile and lifting them up to put them back where he found them, but freezes mid-action when he hears a sound outside the door, having been too distracted to notice anything before now.


	12. argument

It takes Oikawa a little while to actually drift off-- Iwaizumi’s been watching him sleep (to put it in the most simple and inadequate terms) for almost four straight months, and by this point he can tell whether or not Oikawa is truly resting by the nuances in his expression, by the tension of his body, even by the way he breathed. Hajime is well aware it’s a little creepy, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t _mean_ to be.

Once the faint lines in Oikawa’s brow smooths out and he seems to sink back into the mattress, Iwaizumi stops shuffling about and drags the trolley as quietly as he can to the wall. The letters are still there, and he takes them out one by one to put into a stack, removing and replacing cans as he does so. When he gets them all in order and straightens up, he has to suppress a _tsk_ of annoyance: there’s really no good place to put them. Everything is in sight… except maybe...

Trying to be as discreet as possible, Iwaizumi lifts up the corner of the mattress and slides the folded letters under them. There.

With that weight off his chest, Iwaizumi quickly gathers several things from around the room: a hoodie from the clothes trolley, a can of peaches, a can of cream of mushroom soup, the pocketknife, and the soiled armour. He keeps the armour carefully separated as he opens the door and steps out into the hallways, closing it quietly behind him.

He stands there a little while, pondering, and then finally makes the decision to head back down to the first floor. The washroom connected to the lobby is horrible and stained with blood spatters with a corpse mouldering in the corner, but the one near the hallway with the sidedoor is all right. He’ll clean the armour there.

It’s dark in the bathroom, so Iwaizumi keeps the door propped open with a large piece of broken debris as he does his best to scrub off the worst of the walker remains off the armour. The smell is bad in the enclosed space, but not as bad as a walker itself. However, the basins are too small for him to run the water directly over the armour, so Iwaizumi just takes off the shirt he’s wearing and turns the rest of it into a washrag, wetting it thoroughly and scrubbing furiously until every piece of armour padding no longer ran murky when he sluiced water onto it. There’s no point in using soap of course; Iwaizumi saves that for himself, cleaning his face and torso properly of any flecks of walker grime he’d missed, and wiping himself dry with paper towels.

The material of the hoodie he pulls on is warm and comfortable and a little too big, but so is its pickets, which is where he puts the cans of food. When he leaves the washroom again fifty minutes later, he leaves the armour leaned up against the wall to let it drip, and then goes off to search for the next item on his list: candles. Surely they can’t be that difficult to find?

Another thirty minutes later, Iwaizumi amends his thought. Yes, _yes_ it can. He’s combed through the rest of the first floor’s supply cabinets, cupboards, desk drawers, and all he’s found is four slim candlesticks and a few boxes of matches. And _those_ had been taken from the hospital’s _prayer room_. Hajime isn’t religious and he doesn’t think he will be anytime soon-- whatever god still in charge of this earth clearly stopped giving a shit when all this started, and he or she or it could fuck off as far as Hajime was concerned-- but god, he’d felt like a graverobber taking the candles from the place where so many people’s prayers and hopes had gone unanswered.

Still, the matches are a good find. More than good, actually, as a new idea strikes him. He wants to save the candles now: there’s only four, and a time might come where they’d need them, but now that he has matches…

Iwaizumi had always liked the outdoors, and in elementary school his interests had included a brief survival-in-the-wild phase. Who knew the tidbits of knowledge from so long ago would help him now?

The sun is still out, and the walker’s bodies are still where they’d left them. Iwaizumi had contemplated for a long time whether or not he should run back up to the room to get the machete, but in the end decided not to. He still has his gun with him, after all, and the yard is still empty. So he makes up his mind and makes a run for the line of trees by the hospital wall fifty meters from the doorway, climbing up one of them with an ease he’s a little surprised he still has.

He ends up having to take the hoodie off in order to carry all the branches he breaks off, slinging the firewood like a sack over his shoulder by the time he gets back onto the ground. The yard is still empty, and Iwaizumi allowed himself to relax a little as he sets the cans and branches down onto the cement just to the left of the doorway. The decapitated zombie head growling at him is repeatedly kicked until it’s completely out of sight and sound-- if he had his way, Hajime would have dropkicked it over the fence, but he doesn’t want to dirty his hands, not when he’s about to handle food.

Some dirt from the yard and several cement blocks are all he has for a fire pit, but it’ll do. It takes only five minutes to set the whole thing up, and another five to get a small fire going. He was worse at this back at the beginning of the outbreak, but the time with his first group of survivors had gotten him used to it. Once he gets the cans’ lids open, he sticks both of them beside the cement blocks, waiting for them to warm. (He hesitated a little before he put the peaches in-- were you supposed to warm canned peaches? Which way did Tooru prefer it?-- but then decided that cooling them down was less of a hassle than coming back outside to warm the can again.)

He’s been gone about two hours or so now; the sun isn’t blazing right above him anymore, more in a position that suggested mid-afternoon, and as Iwaizumi leans back against the hospital wall, he feels a small smile steal up on him out of nowhere. It hasn’t exactly been the best of days; Oikawa’s first brush with walkers is the furthest from pleasant, but only three days ago Iwaizumi would never have guessed that this is where he would be right now: with Oikawa, _both_ of them alive _and_ awake. They had food, water, shelter, each other; and there’s been no sign that the bandits were still looking for Iwaizumi.

The blessings he counts now are vastly different from the ones from his old life, but they are blessings none the less, and Hajime has long since learnt to appreciate the little moments of peace while he could. And right now, this is the most content he’s been since the outbreak. Well, second-most content: the first had been falling asleep against Oikawa’s side last night.

Adrift in his thoughts, it’s not until he realises that the mushroom soup has begun bubbling a little that Iwaizumi pulls himself back to the present. He quickly smothers the little fire with more handfuls of dirt, not wanting to ruin it too much now that they have a proper way of warming up their food… and realises too late that he has no way of bringing the hot cans back. There’s just no way he can hold on to them for that long.

In the end, he ends up running back into the hallway and getting the kevlar vest to use as a makeshift tray. It takes a while for him to make his way back up to the fourth floor: first he had to wrap his hands in his own hoodie to even put the cans onto the tray, and then put the hoodie back on, keep the side-door open with a block, pick up the tray and set it inside, then go back and close the door properly, and then pick up the tray _again_ and head to the emergency staircase. Only to repeat the set-down/pick-up process again every time he encountered a closed door.

It’s a hassle, but Iwaizumi thinks about Oikawa’s face lighting up once he saw that their dinner was going to be hot tonight, and that makes him go as fast as he can without tipping the cans.

The soup is still steaming by the time Hajime comes back to room 401, though the can is now cool enough to hold briefly. Feeling immensely pleased, Iwaizumi nudges aside the stretcher carelessly, momentarily forgetting that Oikawa was still napping. He has to put the tray down onto the stretcher to open the door, and once he does, he braces his back against it to push it open slowly. He keeps his eyes on the cans as he steps back into the room carefully, remember just in time that Oikawa was sleeping.

He flicks his eyes momentarily away from their cautiously balanced food, and then perks up at the sight of Oikawa already awake.

“You’re up,” he says, a smile flashing across his face. “Look what I got. I did find candles, but screw that, we’ve got a firepit outside now.”

And then he realises that Oikawa is bracing his hands against the side of the bed. Hajime blinks, immediately concerned.

“What’s the matter? Can you stand alright?” He looks for somewhere to set the vest/tray down, wanting to go over to where Tooru is.

 

* * *

 

Tooru takes a step back, showing the letters in his hand.

“I’m fine,” he says, in regards to Hajime’s question about being able to stand, turning half away from Hajime as he steps back to the bed, putting down the letters, no longer needing to hide that he had found them.

When he turns up to look at Hajime, he’s frowning, unsure if he should be happy that he’s still there — the sole reason Tooru is alive — or furious for the same reason.

“You were going to leave me?” he asks, voice small, instantly grimacing at his choice of words, realizing how wrong that sounds — Hajime deciding to leave him was not what he was angry about. The fact that he didn’t is the problem. “You—why are you still here?” he asks, well aware that that isn’t much better worded, but _god_ , his mind is racing, his heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his chest, and he knows its unfair to blame Hajime, knows he should _probably_ feel more pained about Hajime leaving him to die, knows he should also probably worry about Hajime’s own guilt, but all he can think is that he _should_ have been dead and Hajime should have been safe, somewhere else, where he didn’t have to constantly worry about not just himself but Tooru too, who was still more of a hindrance than of help to him.

Tooru looks down at what Hajime holds, staring at the cans balanced on the vest. Of course he made dinner. Of course Tooru is standing here, furious at him after he _cooked_ for him, kept him alive, cared for him—

But what if he hadn’t woken up? Would Hajime have continued to waste his life caring for him, waiting for the moment that might’ve never come where he woke up? Died for him? Gritting his teeth, Tooru sits back onto the bed, turning to look at Hajime again. He has the right to be angry. He didn’t ask for this. Hajime would be even more furious if it was the other way around, he knows.

“I found your letters,” he says flatly, finally managing to sound somewhat calm, stating what is already obvious.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi’s mouth opens… and then closes at the sight of the familiar papers in Oikawa’s hands. The smile that had been on Hajime’s face fades; he’d been so pleased just moments ago, and now he feels as if something leaden had settled in his throat. He swallows.

“I… I see.” he says quietly, feeling strangely helpless. He can’t even do something drastic like walk over and snatch the condemning papers away: his hands are still full with their fastidiously-warmed dinner.

Slowly, he walks over to the bed and sets the vest carefully down beside Tooru, trying to come to terms with the fact that Oikawa now knows that Hajime had left him to die. Trying to answer Tooru’s questions, Hajime feels shame killing any words he had wanted to muster up in his own defence: he’d ended up staying, his presence now was proof of that, but Oikawa now knew how very, very close Hajime had been to giving up on him. _Him._ Hajime’s _best friend._ Of course he’s angry. Who wouldn’t be, after a betrayal like that?

Tooru is _seething_ ; he looks at Oikawa and finds he can’t hold his gaze for longer than a second. Hajime looks at the gently steaming can of soup instead, eyes downcast, still standing.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s starting to lose count of how many times he’s said that to Tooru now, and every time feels worse. Even now, the only reply he can come up with feels like an excuse instead of a reason. “I’m here because… because… I couldn’t, in the end. Isn’t that enough?” he asks, almost pleading. He hadn’t been able to go through with the deed, hadn’t been _able_ to leave... surely that counts for something in Tooru’s mind? But if not, that’s alright, too. It’s understandable, and Hajime’ll do whatever it takes to set things right.

He looks at the food slowly cooling beside them, then back at Tooru.

“Oikawa, I know you’re angry, but… you should eat. Before it starts getting cold.” Hajime’s eyes alight on Oikawa’s thin shoulders and arms, and he swallows again before continuing. “If you don’t want me around right now I’ll come back in a bit.” He doesn’t want the sight of himself putting off Tooru’s appetite, after all, and Tooru needs the nutrition more than he does.

“I’m not hungry, you don’t have to leave me anything.” he adds quickly. He turns to go, pulling the candlesticks and the pocketknife out of his pockets and dropping the armour padding onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

 

* * *

 

Before he even has time to think, Tooru reaches out, grabbing around Hajime’s wrist, surprising even himself with the amount of power he puts into keeping him still.

“Don’t leave,” he says hastily, before taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “You already had your chance to leave,” he adds, as a joke, despite being unable to deliver it in his usual, light tone. He can’t stand seeing Hajime like this, guilty-looking and dejected, with his tail between his legs, and then completely misunderstanding what Tooru was angry about in the first place — replaying what he had just said in his head, he can’t really blame Hajime for misunderstanding that, but it still bothers him that Hajime _still_ thinks this is about Tooru’s life and not his own. Letting go of Hajime’s wrist slowly, he leans in over the bed and pats the mattress on the other side of the vest, looking up at him again, motioning for him to sit down as well.

“I can’t eat it all, so you have to help me,” he says, so used to having to make all of his attempts at sharing or compromising with Hajime sound like it’s still Hajime doing him a favor and not just Tooru wanting to help him as well. He’s pretty sure Hajime is already aware that it’s for his own sake and not Tooru’s, but unlike Tooru he still doesn’t seem to be that big on being obviously mothered or taken care of in obvious ways, so Tooru has still made a habit of doing it like this.

He reaches down for the can of soup, reading the label. The can is hot to the touch, but bearable enough for Tooru to lift, and he raises it to his mouth, blowing at the top before taking a small sip, putting it down again when his fingertips start to hurt.

“Iwa— _Hajime,”_ he says, after swallowing the soup — _god_ , he has been underestimating the importance of warm food his entire life — turning to look at Hajime. “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave,” he says, figuring that he should make that clear from the start at least, since his first angry exclamation obviously hadn’t been clear enough. “I’m angry because you’re still here. You _should_ have gone with them. What if I hadn’t woken up?” he asks, reaching down for the can again, this time eyeing the peaches as well, realising they’re hot too. He frowns, confused about why Hajime would heat them as well, raising the can with soup to his lips, blowing before he takes a sip again, putting it down on the vest once more, this time closer to Hajime, as if to show him it’s his turn to taste. “And why did you heat the peaches? Who even does that?”

 

* * *

 

It’s not often that Iwaizumi does as Oikawa tells him to without protest, but this is an exception. He sits, shoulders a little slumped.... Until Oikawa clears up his misconception.

Once he does, Hajime stares at him, not noticing that Oikawa’s pushed the can in his direction and only very vaguely registering the second question.

“You--you’re--never mind the peaches!” he finally splutters, deciding not to mention that he’s not entirely sure why he heated them up either. More importantly:

“You’re _angry_ because I _didn’t leave you for dead?”_

Hajime’s feels his own shame being shoved to one side by a growing incredulousness… and a rising anger. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

How can Oikawa even say that, especially now that he’s awake, proving once and for all that Hajime had done the right thing in staying with him? Doesn’t he know what leaving would have meant? Hajime would have spent the rest of his _life_ looking back, wondering if Oikawa ever did wake. He would have regretted leaving, and spent the rest of his life trying to get _back._

 

* * *

 

For a moment, Tooru is stunned by Hajime’s swift change of attitude, staring at him with wide eyes. Then he returns to his senses, reminding himself just who of them has any reason to be mad.

“What were the chances of me waking up?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t know much about comas, but he knows enough to know that it was unlikely, probably even more in this particular situation. The treatment could’ve gone wrong, and he—he could’ve returned as one of them, posed a danger to Hajime himself.

“What are you going to do next time I get hurt? Or worse?” Worse could mean many things — being infected again, this time without treatment, or just straight up dying. He’d actually prefer dying at this point, but with his luck, that probably wouldn’t happen. He’d probably put Hajime in danger, even after dying. He has to turn away from Hajime, blinking furiously to keep from crying. To his relief, he succeeds, eyes keeping dry, all of his anger still staying inside him. Hajime is being selfish. By saving Tooru, he had chosen him over his own safety, without even considering what Tooru wanted, what Tooru would think. If something happens to Hajime now, he’ll be to blame, even though he never had a say in the matter.

“How would you feel if it was the other way around?!” he asks as he turns to look back towards Hajime, noticing that the soup is still untouched. Of course. He was probably planning on making Tooru eat it all himself, once again disregarding his own needs in favor of Tooru’s, and, by that, disregarding what is most important for Tooru. Does he seriously not understand that Tooru cares about him as well? Or does he just not care?

 

* * *

 

Hajime’s throat tightens as Tooru asks him the one question that Hajime’s avoided asking himself since Tooru woke: what would he do if Oikawa were injured, or worse, bitten? Somehow, he thinks his answer would have been different if Tooru hadn’t woken up. If Oikawa had died in his coma and turned, Hajime in all likelihood would have put him down and left the hospital for good, to try and live as long as he could stand in the new world..

But now that Oikawa’s awake… if he were to be hurt or bitten _now_ , under Iwaizumi’s watch, under his very eyes… if he’s honest, he doesn’t know if he would be able to handle it. Somehow, he doesn’t think he’d able to just put Tooru down and move on, like he would have done before he woke.

It’s just _different._

Oikawa turns away from him, and Hajime has to stop himself reaching out and pulling him back, knowing that he’s probably trying not to cry. Hajime reaches for the can instead, thinking he might as well get some food in himself, but then Tooru turns back and Hajime forgets about eating once more. The questions Oikawa is firing at him are unbearable to even think about it; Hajime’s heart hurts just thinking down those lines of thought, and to his further agitation, he feels his own eyes starting to sting.

“Of course I’d want you to take every chance you got to survive! We both know that!” he almost shouts. He knows what Oikawa is getting at. Guilt at dragging Iwaizumi down, at forcing Hajime’s hand. And now that Hajime had chosen to stay, it’s on Oikawa if anything happens to him.

Because of course Tooru would think that way, of course he’d blame himself. But that’s the thing about hypotheticals, isn’t it? In the end, the argument is moot, because it _hadn't_ been Hajime who’d been in a coma for the past quarter of a year. It had been Oikawa, and now here they were.

Sinking down further in his seat, Hajime rubs at his eyes with the base of his palm, conflicted.

“I know you didn’t ask for me to stay with you, Tooru.” he says, the anger ebbing from his voice. “I know you didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

The growing lump in his throat is making him sound choked and hoarse-- god fucking dammit, how come Oikawa managed to hold back his tears when Hajime can’t even stop himself from sounding like a smoker with cancer, it’s fucking unfair-- but he presses on, not looking at Tooru, but at his fists clenched in his lap.

“But don’t you see, it’s exactly because of that that I had to stay. _Because you_ didn’t have a choice _,_ in _any_ matter. _” Because all you could do was lie there, at the mercy of a merciless world._

He lifts his head and looks at Tooru. _Am I making any sense at all_ , he wants to ask.

“Are you hearing me?” he asks instead. “It’s _not on_ you if anything happens to me now.”

He licks dry lips, running out of words to articulate himself. “I… I’d rather stay to see you awake and die tomorrow, than leave you in that coma and live forever.”

If Tooru still wants to blame himself for Hajime’s choice, then he might as well blame himself for making Hajime love him too. Where did the fault lie in that?

Not with Oikawa, certainly. (The guilty party in this equation, if there even is one, would be Hajime’s heart.)

 

* * *

 

Of course Hajime’s instant reaction is to tell Tooru not to feel guilty — proving that he still doesn’t understand _shit_ if his first priority is still making sure _Tooru_ isn’t the one feeling bad. He feels no sympathy even when Hajime’s voice is slowly getting more hoarse, and it isn’t until the last sentence that he freezes, feeling another pang of guilt and something else, something he can’t quite put a finger on, but it’s making him oddly giddy, and he has to remind himself that he’s _angry_ and that he should _not_ want to reach out and comfort Hajime right now. Then he remembers the vest with warm food in front of them, prepared on Tooru’s request by Hajime.

“At least stop babying me and eat your half of the soup, you need it just as much as I do,” he says, pointing down at the soup again, much more aware of it than Hajime, assuming that he’s trying to make Tooru eat more of it like he had done with the other meals. Tooru is aware that he needs food if he wants to regain strength, but that doesn’t mean Hajime doesn’t need food too, especially not with all of his injuries _and_ the fact that right now, he’s the only one of them being useful, meaning he’s the one doing all of the work. Tooru is not going to let him neglect his own health or safety — not anymore.

He looks at the soup again, fearing that it’s already cooling down again, remembering that _he_ was the one who asked for warm food. Hajime had heated it for his sake, as if trying to make this experience as comfortable for him as possible. He should probably pride himself lucky that Hajime had even told him about the infected, because he has no doubt that Hajime would keep it from him if they actually had any chance at surviving like that. Tooru wouldn’t even be surprised if he was already trying to come up with some plan so he could be the one doing the dirty work while Tooru simply watched from a safe distance.

It’s almost funny. In literally any other situation, he’d be ecstatic about Hajime doing things like this for him, but now all he feels is anger, irritation, frustration, and helplessness. He has never ever been this mad about a can of soup in his life before.

“I’m awake now, so now I do have a choice in the matter,” he says, leaning in over the vest to look properly at Hajime. “If you die trying to help me, _I’m_ going to kill you.”

 

* * *

 

Hajime opens his mouth to protest that _he’s_ not the one who threw up _his_ entire breakfast that day, but he knows that look in Tooru’s eyes and knows that even though Hajime’s the one in the right (obviously), being obstinate here and now would bring them no closer to resolving this argument.

He has a few hundred things he could say as a reply: ‘why should I stop now when I’ve been babying you your whole life you big baby’, or ‘like you could beat me’, or ‘that doesn’t make any fucking sense’, or even ‘shut up and eat your peaches already’.

But Hajime just tries to un-furrow his wrinkled brow, knowing this is just Oikawa telling him he cares just as much for Hajime as he does for him, and in the end strives to come up with something less petulant sounding.

“I’d let you.” he says somberly, because he’s blanking out on a suitably snarky but mature answer, and not knowing what else to say, had just stuck to the truth instead. Whatever, he’s never been the height of wit.

Grudgingly, he picks up the soup. There’s a thin film where the top layer had cooled, trapping in the steam. Forgetting this completely, Hajime takes a mouthful instead of a sip, and burns first his tongue, and then what feels like the rest of his esophagus as he makes himself swallow instead of spitting it back into the can.

Fuck maturity. Trying not to hiss or stick his tongue out like an angry cat, he pushes the other can at Oikawa.

“Eat your fucking peaches.” he splutters.

 

* * *

 

Tooru breathes out in relief when Hajime actually does as he said, happy that at least he’s getting something to eat.

“It’s still hot,” he says, eyes on the can in Hajime’s hand, a full moment after Hajime has already swallowed the soup, giving Hajime a small smile. He snorts at the comment about the peaches, reaching out to grab the can, but lets go again when realises that it’s still hot.

“They need to cool down—I still don’t understand why you thought heating _peaches_ was a good idea in the first place,” he says, looking up at Hajime again, unable to keep from chuckling shortly. When he turns to look back at the letters, he frowns again. If Hajime hadn’t been out for this long, he wouldn’t have found them. Maybe he never would’ve known.

“Were you going to lie to me about it the whole time?” he asks, his anger having dissipated for now, but no less accusing, except this time, he feels more hurt than furious. He had always loved Hajime’s honesty, found it extremely important to have one person he could trust to be honest with him, even when most other people weren’t. He really doesn’t want that to change.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck off,” Hajime says without venom, scowling at the soup can as he sets it down. “I thought it’d be weird to heat up fruit too, but then pies came to mind. Not that canned fruit is anything like fruit in a pie... They’re both hot fruit, I don’t know okay!”

He sucks in a breath through his mouth, cooling the tip of his stinging tongue. At Tooru’s question, he looks up again, his gaze defensive.

“It wasn’t _lying_ , Tooru. Those were my letters.”

He doesn’t mention that, to anyone else, Tooru reading them would have been a serious breach of privacy. But because it’s Hajime, it’s different. They’ve been stuck at the hip for so long he’s pretty sure the only things that they didn’t share were the thoughts in their heads anymore. Privacy wasn’t even really a concept Iwaizumi thought about, not when Oikawa was involved.

 

* * *

 

Tooru purses his lips, squinting at him for a moment. “You were _withholding_ information. What’s the difference?” he asks, reaching out for the peaches anyway, raising the can to his mouth and scrunching his nose at the smell of warm fruit juice. He still doesn’t have a fork or anything to actually get the peaches out of there, and he’s not going to stick his fingers into it or drink the syrupy juice while still hot.

Putting it down again, he sighs, looking up at Hajime. “Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?”

 

* * *

 

Hajime makes a face at him right back. See, no concept of privacy at all. He wants to argue the point further— Tooru shouldn’t have been reading letters that were so obviously not meant for anyone else’s eyes (why else would they be _hidden_ ), even if they _were_ addressed to him— but at Tooru’s question Hajime’s expression screws up even more.

God, this is not the way he’d wanted to tell Oikawa, but in the face of a straight-up question like that, he has no choice. He can’t lie like this. (Someone had told Hajime once that he couldn’t even play poker right, because it was apparently too much like lying.)

“There _is_ something,” he says haltingly. “I was going to tell you after we ate. I swear. I was trying to find the right time.”

He coughs, rubbing the the back of his neck with one hand, saying, “You remember the kiss?” and immediately kicks himself mentally. God, what a stupid thing to say, it was literally _just this morning_. “Well...”

He exhales. “It wasn’t the first time I’d kissed you.” he continues, words coming out in a jumble. The hot flush of shame was beginning to creep up the back of his neck. His words are coming along faster now, like he just wants to get this admission over with.

“The first time was after I… it was just before I wrote the second letter to your parents. I’d made up my mind to leave you. I wasn’t thinking straight, and— and it just _happened_.” He says in a rush. “It was weird and wrong and creepy and I’m really, really sorry.”

He’s telling Oikawa the truth, the whole truth now, but he doesn’t feel honest, only horribly transparent.

“I thought I was never going to see you again.’ he says quietly, looking away. It’s a sorry excuse, but it’s the only one he’s got.


	13. admission

Tooru’s eyes widen as fast as his cheeks start burning as Hajime’s voice pick up in pace, hurrying through the admission.

“You—you can't just say it like that!” he says while reaching up to cover his face, despite just having asked Hajime to fess up. It's just—the _way_ he said it, making it sound like kissing Tooru was the worst thing he could ever do. Tooru _knows_ why he feels bad, knows why Tooru should be mad at him for it too. It’s essentially the same issue as from before—he didn’t have any choice in the matter, since he was kind of busy being in a coma. Hajime’s mention of leaving him makes Tooru clench his fist again in anger, but it’s still not directed at the kiss, and in comparison to what Tooru was angry about before, the kiss feels so insignificant.

When he looks up at Hajime again, he’s taken aback by how regretful Hajime still looks. He had mentioned the second kiss as well — once could easily be described as a heat of the moment kind of thing; like Hajime said, he thought he wasn’t going to see Tooru again, but _twice?_ Tooru feels his stomach tighten in exhilaration, biting his lower lip. But Hajime still at him, _sounds_ like he has never regretted anything more in his life, and… both kisses were indeed more impetuous than thought out. Everything had changed after the pandemic — even Hajime. He had seen and done things Tooru still can’t even imagine, and whatever fears had prompted the kisses didn’t seem to actually have to do with him _wanting_ to kiss Tooru. Not with the expression he has on his face now, guilty and ashamed. Tooru tells himself the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach is sympathy, not disappointment.

Taking a deep breath, Tooru keeps it in for a few seconds before exhaling. He turns to look back at Hajime.

“That’s—it’s okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice as calm and comforting as possible. It comes out completely flat. “We can just forget about it,” he says, resisting the urge to reach up and touch his lips. He doesn’t have any recollection of the first kiss at all — but the second one? It’s still very clear in his memory, and now that he’s no longer distracted by the shock of seeing the infected or the anger after reading the letters, the fluttering feeling in his chest returns. He shouldn’t try and think too hard of it — Hajime was simply confused, got caught up in the moment, and that’s that.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi is quiet for a while, trying to make sense of Oikawa’s answer. _It's okay,_ he’d said. Maybe Iwaizumi’s thinking too much into it, but did that mean he forgives Hajime for his transgression…or that he’d been okay with being kissed?

Maybe it doesn’t matter, since Oikawa immediately follows it up with the suggestion that they should put all thought of the incidents out of their memories.

Hajime has no regrets about kissing Tooru; his regrets lies in the fact that he’d done it without permission, not because he’d disliked the act. Not at all.

Somehow, he feels like he should clarify this; for once, he can’t quite get a read on Oikawa’s expression _or_ his voice, and he’s never been one to leave uncertainties hanging when a simple clarification could clear up anything misunderstood between them—

— but instead of explaining himself once and for all, he simply says, “Thanks.” and takes another mouthful of soup, careful of the heat this time.

Oikawa’s not an idiot. He knows what a kiss is, what it meant. And he knows that Hajime has only ever done anything at face value, that his actions have always reflected his feelings. He should be able to infer from the fact that Hajime had kissed him at all (not once but _twice_ ) that it meant Hajime’s feelings for him ran deeper than just friendship. Not to think that Oikawa knows exactly what he’s talking about would be nothing short of underestimating him, and Iwaizumi won’t do him that discourtesy.

In short, Oikawa’s probably being the kindest he can in rejecting Hajime’s feelings. Letting him down in the gentlest way and forgiving him in the same breath so Hajime can save some face.

He can’t say he’s not disappointed. In fact, his ribs feel a bit like they’ve been wrapped in barbed wire, piercing him with every breath he took, but that’s neither here nor there.

 

* * *

 

Tooru stares at the can in Hajime’s hand for a moment, eyes sliding up to his lips — big mistake. He’s reminded of the kiss all over again, the one he remembers, and Hajime doesn’t seem the least relieved by his answer, so maybe… Hajime has always been sincere, with everything he did. Maybe there was something more to the kisses, if not, wouldn’t he have learned from his mistake the first time? He’s impulsive at times **,** but not stupid. He’s probably the most obstinate person Tooru knows.

But Tooru _really_ doesn’t want to think of this or get his hopes up if hajime did truly regret it. He doesn’t want to end up being the one sitting back with actual unrequited feelings if Hajime was really just stressed. But…

They _have_ always been each other’s first choice and number one person. Tooru had never considered anything further than that happening between them, content with simply being the most important person in Hajime’s life. It was easy enough, since Hajime had never really been that interested in dating or romance, at least not compared to Tooru or the average person. Tooru tries imagining what it’d be like if Hajime _did_ start dating someone that wasn’t him, started spending more time with them than him, and—no. With a grimace, he shakes his head, unable to ignore the jealousy flaring up simply by _imagining_ it. Even if they weren’t together-together, Hajime is _his,_ everyone had known that, at least back in high school. It hadn’t been that much of a problem here, Tooru had always been the most outgoing of the two, the attention naturally gravitating towards him. He wasn’t possessive, just making sure that he never had any real competition. But did that mean he wanted to _kiss_ Hajime? Just the thought makes him a bit flustered, like a young school girl who’s never tried it, which is _odd._ He’s kissed people before, and there’s no one in the world he’s as comfortable with as Hajime, yet— _god._ He wants to kiss Hajime. Fuck.

Looking back at Hajime, Tooru grimaces, most of Hajime’s mouth hidden away behind the can. He says the first thing that falls into his mouth, suddenly nervous after his new revelation.

“Don’t eat all of it, Iwa-chan, lets share,” he says, relieved that his voice is at least sounding a bit chirpier again, reaching a hand out for the can, frowning impatiently. “You can eat your half of the peaches while they’re still hot if that’s what you want,” he adds, eyes flicking down shortly to the can of peaches, slowly cooling down to an edible level.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi grunts, making a show of taking another mouthful before placing the can in Oikawa’s hand. There’s actually still two-thirds of the soup left by the time Iwaizumi’s done with it; he won’t go so far as to starve himself, but Tooru _had_ thrown up, and he should be the one getting the lion’s share today.

There’s still a pang in his chest— but he’s glad that Oikawa sounds more like his usual self now, glad that at least they’d cleared this whole thing up. If Hajime has been hopeful that perhaps Tooru felt more for him as well, it’s only because he’s never acted like he’d been disgusted by the boyfriend/married couple jokes about them back in high school. Neither of them had minded them, or done anything concrete to actually stop them, after all.

Anyway. Iwaizumi looks down at the peaches, frowning. He doesn’t want to use his fingers or drink in any of the juice either.

“We really need to find a spoon or something,” he grumbled as he gets out the pocketknife. He ends up spearing slices of peach on the end of the blade, and as it turns out, warm peach slices aren’t that bad. Awfully sweet, too much so for Hajime’s tastes, but sugary and sweet things were no longer a common commodity in this world, and he doesn’t mind an intake now and again.

Again, he leaves more for Oikawa than he eats himself. Sugar is what his body needs, and Hajime tells him this directly.

“And we need to fatten you up, so eat.” he informs him, getting up from the bed. He leaves the pocketknife on the vest along with the cans for Tooru to use, then tries to lick away the slight stickiness at the corners of his lips as he goes to organise and straighten their belongings. His mouth doesn’t seem to remember that he’d been ingesting soup as well as peaches: his whole mouth feels saturated in sweetness now. It’s a little gross.

 

* * *

 

Tooru accepts the can, raising it to his lips instantly and taking a mouthful before remembering that Hajime had _just_ been doing the same. An indirect kiss.

The thought itself makes him almost spit the soup back into the can, and he pulls it away from his mouth, covering his mouth to make sure it won’t happen — _fuck._ They’ve been sharing food their entire lives, utensils _and_ water bottles as well, so there’s literally no reason for Tooru to get embarrassed or excited about it, yet… here he is. Still feeling a bit too much like a schoolgirl who isn’t experienced with love.

Tooru forces the thought away, continues eating more of the soup now that it’s cooled down to a better temperature, watching Hajime as he pulls out the pocketknife and finds a way to actually eat the peaches.

When Tooru puts down the soup, there’s still more left for Hajime, mostly because Tooru did notice that he hadn’t eaten much, but also because he isn’t that hungry either and he wanted room for the peaches as well.

“Fatten me up?” Tooru asks, faking an offended look despite being well aware what Hajime meant, not enjoying how thin he has become either. “Iwa-chan will you still love me if I’m—“ he starts, without thinking, but then stops, eyes widening when he remembers their prior conversation. Right. He coughs awkwardly, looking down at the vest.

“The rest of the soup is yours,” he says, reaching out for the can of peaches and the pocketknife, still mentally beating himself — Tooru is anything but used to holding back around Hajime, never having had any problems or sensitive subjects with him. Tooru has never felt the need to keep anything a secret from Hajime, or like there was anything he couldn’t say or talk about near him. He’s not used to having to hold back.

Sticking the pocket knife into the can, Tooru fishes around for a peach slice, noticing that Hajime hadn’t eaten that much at all. He isn’t really surprised at that, since Hajime had never been a fan of sweet things, not like Tooru, but that had always been a good thing — Hajime would always let him have a taste or switch out the things he didn’t like with him, so their tastes usually ended up aligning perfectly. He takes a bite from the peach, preparing himself to dislike it, since it still hasn’t cooled down, but sighing in relief when the nausea never comes — it’s actually pretty good, and he’s already digging into the can for another slice before he’s even done chewing the first one, smiling excitedly. _God,_ the feeling of normalcy from finally eating a tasty meal is welcomed, and his mood is slowly getting better with each sweet, wonderful bite.

 

* * *

 

Hajime stops wiping at his mouth with his fingers and stares at Tooru when Tooru cuts himself off mid-sentence. Then he moves forward slightly and kicks Oikawa in the shins (gently).

“Hey,” he says, smiling faintly. “don’t do that. Don’t start holding back on me now.”

Then the smile turns into a grin. “If you do, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll be out for another four months.”

If Tooru can make ‘haha you love me’ jokes, then Hajime can make coma jokes too. It’s more refreshing and not as awkward like he’d thought it’d be, probably because there’s no more damning secrets left between them. It’s good to be able to joke like this, _normal_.

This new world may change them, but he won’t let it change _them._

He watches Oikawa eating the rest of the peaches with relish, shaking his head at Tooru’s sweet tooth, then finishes off the rest of the soup. Daylight is fading into early evening now; it’d been a sunny morning, but clouds had been gathering all afternoon, and Iwaizumi wouldn’t be surprised if it was a rainy day tomorrow, and he mentions this out loud as he tidies up the remains of their meal, taking the vest from the bed and placing it alongside the other armour padding.

“If it rains tomorrow, what do you want to do?” he calls from the bathroom as he rinses his mouth. Looking into the mirror, he prods at his eye gingerly. It’s looking better today, the bruising still purple, but the edges starting to green now. Give it another week or two, and it’ll fade into yellow, and then away. The bruises on his torso as well; there are still some deep aches whenever he moves, but on the surface they are healing alright. It’s only until now that he thinks that he should probably be bandaging them up and looking for some ointment for his eye; he’s in a _hospital_ for fuck’s sake.

As it is, there’s still much to do, and when Iwaizumi returns to the room he heads for the cabinet where he kept a stack of papers, some stationary, and the clipboard with Oikawa’s medical file. First, he does his routine of barricading the door, then he brings what he needs to the bed, kicking his boots off and settling in the same place he’d slept in last night. The gun is placed on the bedside table within easy reach as always.

He raises his knees, sets the clipboard against his thighs, and then begins making a list. He’s not usually one for organising his thoughts like this-- things moved too fast sometimes in this new world, and having the time to prioritise like this wasn’t always possible-- but it had been a habit from one of his friends in his first group, and it was useful.

He titles one page ‘Inventory’, and the other ‘To-do’, then sticks the inventory page at the back for tomorrow. Then he divides the to-do page into three sections: ‘Essential’, ‘Non-essential’, and ‘Optional’. The very first bullet point he puts in the essential section is, ‘teach Tooru to use a gun’, and then ‘assemble portable first aid kit’ after that.

And then in the non-essentials he puts: ‘find spoons’.

 

* * *

 

Tooru stares at Hajime’s face for a moment, watching the grin appear, his heart rate increasing just as fast. He’s beginning to hate this new revelation of his, because it’s _extremely_ unfair that he can be made to feel like this simply with a smile — and while Hajime is in this state too, not exactly at his most handsome with the failed haircut and his bruises, despite the fact that his eye was looking a bit better compared to when Tooru had just woken up. He’s pulled out of his own head when he remembers that Hajime actually had a reply ready and gasps in faux offense, pouting at him.

“Iwa-chaaan, don’t be so cool,” he complains, turning away from him to show his disapproval at how well Hajime was dealing with the situation compared to himself, unused to being the one who didn’t know the right thing to say. It didn’t help his heart feel any less fluttery either, and if things were to go back to normal, he’d have to get it under control.

He doesn’t do much else after that, simply watching Hajime move around the room as he tidies up after the meal, feeling extremely unhelpful but not minding the chance to just sit and watch him move until Hajime goes to the bathroom. The uncomfortable tension from before has dissipated, and Tooru is happy to have things return to normalcy. He’s still not satisfied with how the fight had gone, but relieved that Hajime is still, well, _Hajime_.

He doesn’t reply to the question at first, but when Hajime returns, he crawls up to his side to him, squeezing into the spot next to him until he’s comfortable, resisting the urge to snuggle up even further to him, enjoying the heat emitting from Hajime’s body wherever they touch.

He leans in over Hajime’s shoulder to read what’s on the list, still having no sense of privacy whatsoever, resting his chin on Hajime’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what we should do tomorrow,” he admits. “What do you even do in times like this? Play cards?”

 

* * *

 

“I only seem cool next to you the way an average person looks beautiful next to an ugly person.” he replies, grinning wider.

There had been no real resolution to their argument; both of them probably still think the other is in the wrong, and it’ll probably come up again in the future as another point of contention between them, but right now Hajime can only focus on Oikawa’s weight against his shoulder. That’s what tends to happen around Oikawa; everything that had seemed so important only moments before seems to fall away, nothing else mattering so long as Tooru’s warmth is pressed against him.

Hajime leans back unconsciously, far too used to their physical intimacy over the years to get worked up over it. Not to say that he doesn’t get worked up about it now, but back in high school when he was still trying to work through what to label his feelings for Oikawa, he’d been almost hyper-aware about Tooru always touching him in _some_ way or another. As a hormonal teenager it was very stressful at times.

Now, he takes it in stride with far more grace. Growing up, one did acquire a certain gravitas and dignity after all.

Then Oikawa speaks almost directly right in his ear and Hajime feels that dignity trying to slip away as he twitches at the sensation of warm air over his skin.

“Uh… um.” he says intelligently. “Well, I was thinking about doing inventory. It’s good to know exactly where we stand with our supplies.”

Still, he adds ‘find cards’ to the optional section, and then moves back to the essentials section and adds several more items: ‘escape plan+escape pack’, ‘weapons for oikawa’, ‘duct tape’. And then, after another moment’s thought: ‘clear out cafeteria (later)’.

He elbows Tooru in the ribs without looking at him. “Oi, help me out here.”

 

* * *

 

“Inventory… right,” he says, leaning in against Hajime tiredly, really not interested in the planning, mostly because he’s not yet tuned into the survival mindset. Doing inventory would probably be pretty simple, a list of what they have now, to find out what they can use or what they’ll need in the future. The idea of not owning anything more than what can fit on a small list is odd to Tooru, and it reminds him of the fact that he’ll never return to his old home or Japan. Or his family. Hell, even just going back to their dorm room will probably be impossible — he was lucky to at least have a bag of his own stuff, compared to Hajime who had arrived at the hospital with pretty much nothing apart from his weapons, and then of course the supplies he had been hiding there.

When Hajime elbows his side, Tooru huffs, leaning way slightly and turning to look up at him.

“Ouch, Iwa-chan! You’re supposed to be gentle with me while nursing me back to health,” he says, leaning back into Hajime’s space again, pressing against his side more insistently this time, just to be annoying.

He looks down at the list again, reading Hajime’s additions.

“Oh, the cafeteria! There’s bound to be some spoons there,” he says, turning to look up at Hajime and freezing, realising that he’s much closer than expected. It could be so easy, leaning in and closing the distance, and Hajime kind of owes it to him too. But whatever Hajime is struggling with, first thinking that he was going to lose Tooru, then getting him back, kissing him again probably wouldn’t make him any less confused about his feelings. Hajime would probably let him if Tooru asked nicely, even if he had already regretted the first two kisses, but that doesn’t make Tooru feel any better about wanting to do it again. Stupid Hajime, kissing him and making him realise his feelings. Stupid Hajime, being so lovable in the first place.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against Hajime’s shoulder.

“Iwa-chan looks so stupid,” he mumbles in an attempt at hiding his embarrassment, feeling his cheeks start burning, trying to press his entire face against Hajime’s shoulder. “We should get you an eyepatch or something.”

 

* * *

 

“No can do, you’ll probably throw shit at me for fun once I lose my depth perception. And _your_ stupid ass is pushing me off the bed.” Iwaizumi mutters, dimly aware of Tooru burrowing his face against his shoulder like some kind of mole, or earthworm. He presses back even harder against Oikawa in retaliation even as he continues to try and jot down anything else of importance, remaining unaware of how close they’d been just a second ago, eyes focused on the paper before him. It feels like there should be much more to do, but he can’t think of anything particularly pressing to add.

He considers a little more about how so much more dangerous life would be with just one eye, and shudders. To have a blind side where anything could sneak up on you sounds horribly anxiety-inducing; it’d been hard enough when his eye was swollen to the point where he’d basically had only one eye to see out of. He can’t imagine if that had been permanent.

“Yeah, the cafeteria’ll have a ton of useful shit,” he muses. “But that entire area is unsecured. I’ve blocked it off because I can’t handle that many walkers at once, but now that you’re here…”

He leans his cheek against the top of Oikawa’s head. “We need to get you familiar with shooting a gun.” he exhales, closing his eyes briefly. “And how to clean and maintain it too.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll come and save Iwa-chan’s ass,” Tooru says, joking as an attempt to make light of the situation, well aware that he won’t be the one of them saving the other as they are right now — compared to Hajime’ he’s pretty much useless, and he still hates being so behind, _still_ not having been of much help to Hajime since he woke up.

It hasn’t even been long since he woke up from the nap, but he’s still already growing tired again, choking back a yawn against Hajime’s shoulder before tilting his head to the side, resting it against the shoulder as Hajime leans his cheek against the top of Tooru’s head.

“Should we try and practice with the gun tomorrow, then? Or is that better to do outside?” he asks, not needing to raise his voice much when they’re this close. He still feels odd about constantly getting tired, figuring that he should’ve gotten enough sleep to last a while over the last _four_ months, but apparently not.

 

* * *

 

“Depends on the weather,” Iwaizumi says, looking out the window. “If it rains, we’ll practice with live ammo outside. If it doesn’t, we’ll practice dry-firing instead.” He bites his lip, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. “I just don’t want any bandit scouts hearing the gunshots and coming here to investigate. If it’s raining hard, they won’t be sending anyone out. You’d be surprised at how easily the sound of a walker blends in with the forest when there’s a storm.”

He’s struck with the urge to curl an arm protectively around Tooru’s shoulder. No matter what, he can’t let those people find Oikawa. They thought children were a liability already, they wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of a recent coma patient. And they’d want to punish Iwaizumi too, for running. What better way to kill two birds with one stone?

Iwaizumi extricates himself from Oikawa, crossing over to the window to shut it fully, and then to pull down the blinds three-quarters of the way down; the tiredness in Oikawa’s voice hadn’t escaped him. The room darkens significantly, and with a sigh he places the clipboard on top of the cabinet.

He’s about to resume his seat when he pauses, hovering at the bedside. Tooru had been through a lot today; sometimes, in the past, he had preferred time alone to process. Maybe that’s the case now, and considering everything that had happened today, Hajime thinks it safer to ask just to be sure.

“Oikawa.” he says softly. “Do you want me to sleep on the floor tonight? I don’t mind.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru blinks up at him, silent for a few moments as he takes in the words.

“You’re kidding me right?” he asks, already moving aside, briefly wondering if Hajime had been annoyed with him sitting so closely, well aware that it had never been an issue before. He tries to think of what could’ve changed and then— _oh._ Maybe Hajime thought Tooru would have an issue with it after the kiss. God, he hopes that isn’t it, the thought of Hajime thinking he’d have an issue with anything like that making him angry—no, that couldn’t be it, Hajime knew him better than that. But why else would Hajime think Tooru would find it weird if he— _did_ Hajime like him? Tooru looks up again, patting the spot next to him, urging Hajime to join him. “I thought we had already discussed this, Iwa-chan. No more leaving me,” he says, forcing up a smile and turning to lie down on his back. “And you’re my only source of heat,” he decides to add, after a moment of thinking.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not leaving you, I’d just be by the door.” he scoffs, pulling the covers down properly and climbing in before pulling them up to their waists. God, it’s a tight fit. Why did his stupid shoulders have to be this wide? Hajime sticks as close to the edge of the bed as he can without falling off, turning onto his side to save space. He faces both Oikawa and the door, for different but equally important reasons. Number one, he can see any threat entering, and number 2 (and most importantly, really), he won’t turn his back on Oikawa, not even in the physical way.

“I dunno,” he murmurs into the dimness after a short silence, his eyes closed, his face tilted into the softness of the edge of the pillow. “Aren’t normal people usually uncomfortable sleeping with someone who kissed them without asking them first? ...Twice?” he adds.

Weird, he hadn’t been all that sleepy or tired when he’d first laid down, and had thought he’d be lying there until night fell before dozing off. Instead, his eyes are strangely heavy, hard to keep open. Now, with Oikawa radiating his own warmth beside him, he thinks he’d be able to drop off within minutes.

 

* * *

 

Tooru looks at him for a moment, considering acting like he didn’t remember. Then he remembers what Hajime had said about not getting weird about it, and if Hajime feels comfortable enough talking about it, then why wouldn’t Tooru? Turning to lie on his side, Tooru faces Hajime more directly, blinking at him.

“Probably… good thing you’re not dealing with normal people then, huh?” he says, smiling faintly. He considers adding a comment about the great Oikawa-san gracing him with his company, but decides against it, instead reaching a hand up, grabbing the fabric at the front of Hajime’s shirt, as if trying to pull him closer.

This is his chance, Tooru thinks. If he wants to be smooth, he could just lean in and kiss him, clear away all misunderstandings and uncertainties. He could end it with his most winning smile, pull back and mention something about the score being 2-1 now.

Instead, he tightens his grip in Hajime’s shirt, frowning slightly.

“You know I’d never be uncomfortable with you, right?”

 

* * *

 

He’s about to tell Oikawa to wipe that smirk off his face-- he can tell when Tooru is smiling even with his eyes closed, and he just _knows_ a smartass comment is about to poke its stupid head around the corner, but then he feels the front of his hoodie being pulled.

In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, he considers the question carefully.

“Yeah… I know. It’s just… it’s been a while, y’know?” He can’t remember the last time he and Oikawa had been separated the way they were, if they had even ever been; all their lives they’ve never been apart for more than a few weeks, and to suddenly have the person you’ve been talking to and thinking about every day of your life for the past two decades suddenly be replaced by a silent void… well.

To lighten the mood, he adds. “Also, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not going to fall off the bed.” he murmurs drowsily. “Don’t need to pull.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru frowns, nodding slowly at Hajime’s admission, once again reminded that _he’s_ the one who’s been missing for the last few months, and that through it all Hajime was the one who came back and waited for him all this time. Tooru feels guilty, hoping that Hajime doesn’t blame him for it. Tooru has no memory whatsoever of the months they hadn’t been together, but Hajime does. And he can’t really blame him for that.

Well aware that Hajime hasn’t moved any closer, Tooru frowns before he pushes himself a bit closer, cutting the already barely there distance between them, sighing contently, enjoying the warmth Hajime emits.

“I’m not scared of you falling off, I won’t let that happen,” he says, before reaching a hand up to cover his mouth, choking a yawn. He lets go of Hajime’s hoodie, straightening his hands that have gone so cold they feel stiff, before letting his hand fall further down to Hajime’s side until he reaches his hip. He pushes Hajime’s shirt up, pressing his fingers against the hot skin underneath, smirking up at Hajime.

“I’m freezing, you should keep me warm so I don’t get sick.”

 

* * *

 

Hajime’s eyes don’t fly open in surprise, but they nearly do. As it is, his body still jerks, and in an instinctive effort to get away from the sensation he actually rolls right up against Oikawa.

With a muffled curse into the pillow, he reaches up with one hand and presses it into Tooru’s soft hair like he’s about to crush his skull, but with the shock wearing off his lethargy returns in a rush, and he just ends up entangling his fingers against the back of Oikawa’s head, arm draped over Oikawa’s body.

“Tomorrow.” he mutters, making the word sounding like it’s Oikawa’s death knell. As he settles down again, pressed up all the way against Tooru, he thinks he can feel Tooru’s heartbeat in sync with his own. The last of his doubts and fears that Oikawa would distance himself from Hajime finally slips away for good, and as he falls into a dreamless sleep, he does so with the faint impression of his lips mouthing wordless affection against Tooru’s hair.


	14. the proposition

He wakes up to a gentle drumming against the window, proof that Hajime was right about today being a rainy day, unless it’s just a passing rainshower. The room is still dark, signifying that it’s still the early morning hour, and Tooru hasn’t felt this warm and comfortable since—well, in over four months.

Normally, he prefers getting out of bed the instant he wakes, lucky enough to be one of those people who’s wide awake from the moment he opens his eyes, unlucky enough to be unable to fall asleep again after he’s woken. Right now, though, he doesn’t mind staying in bed, still pressed up against Hajime, if possible even closer than when they had fallen asleep, warm and comfortable.

He tilts his head upwards slightly, pressing his nose into the crook of Hajime’s neck, inhaling deeply. He still smells a bit like the hospital soap, but mixed with familiarity. Now that Tooru thinks of it, he probably should’ve known earlier — very few ‘just’ friends sleep together like this. He nuzzles in further against Hajime’s neck, his lips ghosting over the skin right above the neckline of the hoodie, his hand sneaking up to grab the fabric of the shirt again, his eyes fluttering shut once more.

 

* * *

 

Yesterday must have taken more out of him than he’d realised: the patter of rain insinuates itself into his dreams, but only as a vague backdrop. For once, Hajime doesn’t jerk awake all at once; instead, he’s pulled from slumber an increment at a time, and even then, waking up isn’t what’s on his mind. Tooru is. Sleeping with Oikawa, the scent of him in his nose, the warmth of him in his arms all night… is it even a surprise that he’d dreamed of him as well?

Hajime hovers just at the edge of consciousness, no longer asleep, but not yet aware of the fact. He’s aware of Oikawa’s presence though. His perception is fuzzy enough that every sensation feels all too familiar… because though Oikawa’s never been this close before, Hajime’s _dreamed_ of it in the past. Growing up together, sleepovers, sharing a futon if there was a shortage during the training camps… he’d never remembered the content of these dreams, only that Oikawa was in them. It’d been mortifying, and he's just glad that he wasn’t a sleeptalker.

Now though, his perception blurs the lines between dream and reality, and at the faint impression of phantom lips against the hollow of his throat, a small involuntary noise escapes him. His arm, still draped Oikawa’s shoulder, shifts slightly, and his fingers curl into the back of Oikawa’s shirt like he wants to pull him even closer. At the same time, Hajime tilts his head against the pillow, baring more of his throat in an unconscious attempt at chasing the sensation. His brow is furrowed, but pain isn’t what had made him emit the small sound from the back of his throat.

 

* * *

 

Tooru feels the slight vibration in Hajime’s throat when the noise escapes him, and for a moment he lies completely still, waiting for Hajime to pull way. When i doesn’t happen, he relaxes a bit again, wondering if Hajime is still asleep, or if Tooru is the one still dreaming.

He lets go of Hajime’s shirt, only to reach a hand up under it again to his waist, his hands as warm as the rest of his body this time as he leans in slightly again, as if he isn’t already way too close.

A yawn forces its way through before he has a chance to stop it, and Tooru opens his mouth widely, trying not to make too much noise, his teeth grazing over Hajime’s throat for a minute before he tilts his face upwards, his nose pressed up right underneath Hajime’s jaw. He slides his fingers a bit further up Hajime’s side, stopping when he feels the shirt crawling up with his arm, letting his hand rest there, opening his eyes slowly, realising that he is indeed awake, his eyelashes fluttering against the side of Hajime’s neck. For a moment he listens in silence before realising that Hajime’s breathing is no longer as even as before, meaning that he’s awake. And still hasn’t pushed Tooru away.

Tooru pulls back his head to look up at Hajime’s face, grabbing onto Hajime’s side with the hand still resting there, pushing him over to lie on his back before following, rolling over on top of him and sitting up, straddling Hajime with a leg on each side. His knee is exactly at the edge of the bed, and he’s pretty lucky that they had moved further into the bed during the night and Hajime didn’t just fall out over the bed.

Tooru reaches a hand up on each of his shoulder to hold him down, hoping the shock is big enough for him to not fight Tooru and roll him over, knowing full well that Hajime could overpower him if he tried, even more so now that Tooru isn’t as strong as he used to be. Leaning in over Hajime, Tooru purses his lips in thought before tilting his head to the side.

Despite his earliest conclusions yesterday, probably more shock-induced than actually realistic, Tooru is now pretty sure that Hajime _does_ like him, at least considering his question when he had joined Tooru in bed, and then pretty much every single thing that had happened from then up until now.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, fingers digging into the fabric of the hoodie. Tooru’s heart is hammering away again, and he isn’t sure if it’s out of excitement or the absurdity of the situation, the fact that he’s _actually_ considering propositioning his best friend since childhood. He’s pretty sure that _four_ months of coma is more than enough time to heighten his sex drive completely, but he still has no idea if he _actually_ wants Hajime like that, or it’s some anxiety-induced attempt at finding comfort in the only other person he knows who is definitely still alive and near. What better way to find out than to at least try and clear the air between them?

“Do you _like_ me?”

 

* * *

 

His mind is awakening properly now, though his eyes and body are still slow in receiving the message. It's a far cry from how he usually wakes, alert and tensed, aware of every noise around him before he’s even opened his eyes. But that’s just what Tooru does to him: catches him off guard and puts him at his mercy.

Hajime shudders when teeth scrape the skin of his throat. No longer under the impression that this was a dream, but still too recently awake to react with anything other than base impulse, he makes another muffled noise, letting Tooru do what he wanted. Hais hand slides from Oikawa’s back to grasp faintly at his shoulder, holding him there.

(Funny how quickly and effortlessly he just bares his weakest spot to Oikawa’s teeth, considering the transmission of the infection. Funny how Oikawa can reduce him to this without having actually done anything concrete.)

His eyes are open more than just a slit now; Hajime waits for Oikawa to make another move as his vision adjusts quickly to the dark room, though sleep makes it still blurry. The touch of Oikawa’s hand on his bare skin and accompanying breath of cooler air makes his breath stutter just the slightest, but Oikawa stops before the sweatshirt rides up any further. Thinking he might as well be the first to break the silence, Hajime opens his mouth, whispering.

“Oikaw—“

Then the hand he’s got on Tooru’s shoulder is knocked away, falling to the side of his head as he’s pushed onto his back. Considering the force of it, he would have called it _slammed_ instead of _pushed_ if Oikawa had been at his usual strength.

He looks up at Tooru, making no move to reverse their positions. Not that he couldn’t if he’d really wanted to, but time seems to have suddenly accelerated; every aspect of what was going on seemingly almost too fast compared to the years of build-up on Hajime’s side before. He’s too surprised, still too tired, and too caught off guard to consider doing or saying anything other than what Tooru asks of him.

One thing is clear though; sleep is no longer on his mind. His breaths are coming just a little quicker than usual too, his focus on the weight of Tooru’s hands pinning his shoulders, on the pressure of Tooru’s knees on either side of his waist, and on the fabric of his sweatshirt, just ridden up enough that his bare side is exposed to the air.

Hajime swallows at the question, once again feeling far too transparent instead of honest. In hindsight, perhaps the answer has always been self-evident. Oikawa had just been too close to the heart of the matter to see it.

“Yes.” he whispers. He makes no move to try and lower his right hand from where it’s still lying by the side of his head, even though the position makes him feel strangely vulnerable.

Somehow, it all feels a little different than what he’d imagined; not that he’s imagined any scenario in particular detail, but when he’d fantasized about Tooru reciprocating, it hadn’t been quite like this. The atmosphere is charged with something more _edged,_ more base. It’s a reciprocation of sorts, that’s all Hajime knows. Only maybe, not _exactly_ the one he’sd been waiting for.

Still, he’ll take whatever’s given because if it’s Oikawa, he’s simply not strong enough to resist.

 

* * *

 

Hajime has always been handsome — Tooru knows this, but in this position, it’s like he’s being reminded all over again, the messy state of his hair almost making the irregularities in length unnoticeable. He’s still a bit too bruised up for Tooru to really enjoy it — not that, uh, he would enjoy the look normally, definitely not — but his expression makes up for it, all open and vulnerable. Tooru almost feels bad for wanting to take advantage of it. Almost.

He pushes himself a bit further down Hajime, instead straddling him above his crotch, pressing his pelvis down against Hajime’s, rolling his hips just once. Technically, he isn’t really taking advantage of Hajime if he’s willing as well, right? If he really didn’t want to, he’d stop Tooru. If he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t have that kind of expression on his face, right?

Leaning back up to straighten his back, Tooru releases his hold on Hajime’s shoulders, sliding his hands down over his chest until he reaches the hem of his hoodie again, fingers ghosting over the bared skin underneath. Before continuing any further, he looks up at Hajime’s face again, giving him a small smile.

“Do you want me?” he asks this time, keeping his tone innocuous despite the nature of the question. He pushes the sweatshirt up a bit further, this time pressing his hands down under the shirt completely, still keeping them on Hajime’s stomach, making no move to move them further anytime soon.

His eyes are still fixed on Hajime’s face, but he’s still vaguely aware of the dark bruises covering most of Hajime’s torso, keeping his touch light. He’s also _very_ aware of the hard muscle underneath the skin, suddenly not as interested in having to undress himself when he remembers the state he is currently in — but nothing of the like can be said of Hajime, and despite the bruises spread over most of his skin, Tooru _does_ want to pull off a few layers of clothes off Hajime’s body, even in the cold crisp morning air. Tooru has a few ideas for keeping his body warm anyway.

Instead of going any further right away, he sits down with all of his weight, rubbing his ass over Hajime’s crotch just to test, still keeping his eyes on Hajime’s face to take note of his reactions.

 

* * *

 

His breath hitches at Oikawa’s touch-- at his hands, at the press of hips against his own, and Hajime doesn’t need to look down at himself to affirm that Oikawa’s lifting his sweatshirt even higher. His body is starting to feel heated; at this point, he doesn’t know what would make it worse, Oikawa’s hands traveling up, or traveling down. Just having Oikawa’s hands _on_ him makes him want to insinuate himself against them, give Oikawa free reign to do whatever he wanted.

He feels himself flush a little at the second question-- the first one had been exactly what it was at face value, but this one seems to be hiding the real question under a disguise, and what Hajime hears isn’t really _do you want me_ but something more along the lines of _do you want me to want you?_

Or, _do you want me to_ fuck _you._ That last verb seems interchangeable, somehow.

Hajime nods dumbly, senses still too zeroed-in on Oikawa’s palms against his stomach and the grinding of Tooru’s ass right against the front of his jeans to remember that it was a little difficult to see in the dimness. (The only light is filtering in from the crack in the blinds, and even then it can barely be counted as that. He can only see half of Tooru’s face: the right side is mostly shadow, with the faint glint of an eye).

Somehow, the restrictive denim fabric is only heightening his arousal. The button is open-- Hajime sleeps in outerwear as a usual rule, even in places of safety, and this is the only comfort he allows himself. But even the zipper is pulled more than half-way up, the way Oikawa is rolling his hips down is applying a pressure that makes Hajime have to close his eyes and visibly _try_ to regulate his breathing again.

He doesn’t even _know_ if Oikawa’s actually going to go along with this any further than what he’s done. The suddenness of the proposition is something Hajime’s seen before, and it’s not the first time he’s been approached for a one-night stand. It had been most common during the early days, when people thought the end of the world had arrived (it had), and what better way was there to fight death than with an act of life? They fucked either to forget, or to feel, or both, and it seems as if Oikawa is no less susceptible to the urge.

Hajime hadn’t accepted any of the offers; except for one, and even then they hadn’t done it more than a few times. He’d never resonated with the base motivation for the act-- one-night stands had never appealed as a concept he could get behind-- but she’d had light brown hair, a cheerful disposition, and knew how to read people. And… it wasn’t like he and Oikawa were _together_ anyway. And the solitude had been eating him alive.

Technically, only the first excuse still held now. But what’s to be done when the reason for that excuse is also why Hajime feels himself ignoring all his misgivings about sex for the sake of sex, and giving in to growing knot of pleasure at the pit of his stomach?

He wants to reach up with both hands and pull Tooru down to him. Instead, he presses his fingertips against the mattress instead, trying not do anything to influence Oikawa’s next choice of action, wanting this choice to be Tooru’s alone. His own breathing seems too loud in the dark; he tries to quiet himself down, to stop his own hips moving instinctively back against Oikawa’s.

 

* * *

 

At first, Tooru is slightly annoyed that Hajime doesn’t do anything further — he likes a challenge, and Hajime has always been one to push him to the limit. Hajime’s choice to let him take the lead may be some noble way to prove that he wants Tooru to know that he can choose, given the fact that Tooru still hasn’t actually declared his feelings. What Hajime wants now is pretty clear, but the same can’t be said for Tooru. Even he is doubtful.

Still, he wouldn’t mind Hajime at least _trying_ to take the lead. It’s silly — Tooru knows he has the upper hand, even without his strength. Part of him also enjoys it, how Hajime gives in to him so easily, lets himself be completely under his mercy. Tooru is good at making people follow his will, but with Hajime, it’s different — everything is. Hajime _knows_ him, better than anyone, and he _still_ lets Tooru take control, lets him have him as he pleases.

Right. Tooru is definitely excited about that, unable to lie when he can physically feel his body stir at the thought. He leans in over Hajime, facing him at first as if about to kiss him, but then leans to the side, his lips ghosting over Hajime’s ear and throat, hands sliding up further under the sweatshirt, the skin so hot under his fingers he feels like they’re burning.

“Tell me,” he whispers against Hajime’s ear, now that his mouth is close enough to Hajime’s ear for him to be able to lower his voice. “What do you want me to do to you?”

He continues one hand up a bit further under the hoodie, until his fingertips tease lightly over Hajime’s nipple as he opens his mouth, grazing his teeth over Hajime’s neck again, hoping to get another small shudder from him. He leans back slightly, raising his head to look at Hajime’s face even though it’s barely visible in the dim light, sliding a fingertip over his nipple in a circular motion again, awaiting his response.

 

* * *

 

Well, there’s the answer Iwaizumi had been looking for: the longer this went on, the more it feels like one of Oikawa’s _games_ somehow, and that emboldens him. He’d been treading on eggshells around Oikawa these past two days; it’s probably a byproduct of having been Tooru’s sole caretaker for so long. But Oikawa’s back now, and if anything happening right now is any indication, he’s still the same Tooru who did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, to whomever he wanted.

Instead of answering him, Hajime reaches up with his right hand, draping it over Oikawa’s shoulder. His fingers dance across the skin on the back of Tooru’s neck, idly twisting themselves into his hair.

He has to suppress another noise from his throat, quashing it before it can escape him. His nipples had never been particularly sensitive-- at least he _thought_ they weren’t until maybe ten seconds ago, and for the first time in perhaps ever, Oikawa’s nails aren’t trimmed. Hajime can _feel_ the edge of the fingernail against his nipple every time it draws a circle, and as for his throat--

 _Touch me_ , is the answer on the tip of his tongue.

What he actually says is something else entirely.

“Is that what you say to all the _kyaa_ -ing fangirls?” Hajime breathes, arching his back unconsciously into the hand Oikawa’s got on his chest. His left hand raises and wraps around Oikawa’s waist, keeping him there so Hajime can grind against him, like _he’s_ the one using Oikawa for his own purposes.

Also, Tooru’s wearing sweatpants. And that makes his lower body more accessible than Iwaizumi’s is.

The hand on Oikawa’s waist skirts the lining of those pants, teasing, and then slips up instead, scraping his nails across Oikawa’s side, then over to the small of his back. _Then_ his hand slips underneath, staying pressed against Oikawa’s skin until he’s squeezing his ass, the pad of his index finger pressed against the dip where Tooru’s tailbone was.

Hajime’s managed not to make any sounds that were _too_ mortifying so far-- if Oikawa wants to hear him, he’ll have to pull them out of him. (That, or he could ask nicely. But somehow Hajime doesn’t think that’s the route Oikawa’s going to take. Not today.) In the meantime, it’s about time Tooru’s made some noises of his own.

 

* * *

 

Tooru tenses slightly, breath hitching when the hand slips under and into his pants, barely audible but still _way_ too loud for his liking in the quiet of the room.

“Are you calling yourself another fangirl?” he asks, grinning down at Hajime. “Because that’s completely unfair — you’re much harsher to me,” _and he’d never lead them on like this_ , he thinks, but forces the thought away. He never did intend to leave anyone on, but he let people draw their own conclusions, yet never like this. But Hajime _is_ different, because Tooru does love him, more than anyone — doesn’t matter how you define that love — and Hajime knows Tooru well enough to read him and figure out what he means without a single word spoken. Tooru wouldn’t be surprised if Hajime does find out whether or not Tooru feels the same before Tooru realises it himself. It’s not that he’s intentionally trying to treat Hajime differently, it’s just that whenever he’s involved, it’s like a whole different game with completely new rules.

“To answer your question, no,” Tooru says, looking down at Hajime with a small smile before leaning down again, grazing his lips over the shell of his ear again. “Iwa-chan knows me — I don’t ask, ever.”

He continues tracing his finger in a circular motion around Hajime’s nipple, feeling it harden by the second. He hadn’t expected Hajime to be this sensitive, but he _definitely_ isn’t complaining. He’s not sure if Hajime is trying to hold back his reactions, but if he is, he isn’t doing that well of a job, back arching up into the touch, his breathing slightly elevated. Tooru wants more out of him, but for now, he’ll take it.

He rakes a finger over the nub instead, his nail offering a bit of resistance, before he pinches it gently, nowhere near hard enough to hurt, still testing out Hajime’s limits — god, despite having been inseparable since childhood, Tooru suddenly feels like there’s a _lot_ more he needs to learn about Hajime.

Tooru is already half-hard, the thin fabric of his sweatpants not offering much resistance, and he grinds down against Hajime in retaliation, aware that he probably needs this a lot more than Hajime right now, the only thing making up for it being Hajime admitting his feelings, which most likely means Hajime _has_ had fantasies about him — or _them_ — before. Just the thought makes his cock twitch and he looks down at Hajime, trying to imagine it. Preferably, he’d like to take it slow, picking Hajime apart until he’s making so many noises Tooru has to shut him up by filling out his mouth too. Right now, the matter is too urgent, and if Tooru has to be the one coming first, he wants it to be intentional.

He’d feel worse about rushing it if Hajime was more of a romantic, the kind of person who’d have fantasized about their first time down to the smallest detail, but that’s very unlikely, and by the look of surprise on Hajime’s face when Tooru had first rolled him over, he doesn’t seem to have any expectations for how this is going to go. Good, because Tooru is feeling selfish, impatient, and he’d _really_ like to get off before he risks realising that he doesn’t actually want to fuck his childhood best friend.

“Hey, Iwa-chan?” Tooru asks as he leans up again to look at Hajime’s face, giving him his most innocent smile. ”I have a way for you to make up for kissing me,” he says, smile turning into a smirk that fits his intent better.

“You could kiss me again,” he whispers after leaning down again, nibbling over the skin on Hajime’s neck, letting the tip of his tongue slide over shortly a few times before moving upwards again to the spot right under Hajime’s ear. “… somewhere else,” he adds, with a roll of his hips to get his point across, grinding his own hips down against Hajime’s, his hardness pressing down against the front of Hajime’s jeans more obviously this time.

Just to make sure Hajime knows _where_ he means, he slides his other hand down, trailing his fingers over the hem of Hajime’s jeans before playing with the half-opened zipper, teasing a finger over the thin fabric of the boxers underneath.

“And maybe I’ll reciprocate the favor.”

 

* * *

 

He almost headbutts Tooru just looking at the shit-eating grin on his face; the only reason he doesn’t is because Oikawa leans down and speaks directly into his ear. Hajime had never known just how _intimate_ the attention paid there could feel. Before now, he’d never had cause for... _that_ kind of experience.

He’s very quickly learning that his ears are just as sensitive as the skin on his throat, if not more. Every time he feels Oikawa’s lips and the imprint of his teeth-- one soft and warm, the other hard and unforgiving, leaving just a hint of dampness in its wake-- he simultaneously wants to crawl away from and towards the feeling. It pisses him off. It’s also turning him on.

So is the insistent pinch of Tooru’s fingers against his nipple. The stimulation against the pebbled skin is sending small, constant shocks of pleasure that seem to be hard-wired straight to his dick; he wants Tooru to put both his hands _and_ his mouth on him, rub and pinch and flick and tongue both his nipples until he’s moaning.

Like hell he would ask for it, though. Oikawa’s got enough of a hold over him without Hajime just _giving_ him a labelled map of where to touch him to pull mortifying noises out of him. He already can’t believe how Oikawa, on his first fucking try, had managed to even know his chest was this sensitive when Hajime didn’t himself.

Tooru’s enjoying it too. He doesn’t have to be smirking for Hajime to be able to tell that much. Feeling he should do something about that, Hajime moves his hand from Oikawa’s ass and shoves it between their bodies, pressing the palm of his hand right up against Oikawa, giving him a firm surface to rut against and tracing the outline of his cock through the semi-loose material of his sweatpants.

What Tooru asks of him makes him heat up all over; Hajime’s mouth actually goes dry at the insinuations, and he _feels_ himself twitch, his arousal now trapped more than a little uncomfortably in his jeans. His verbal response is a low growl at the audacity of the request; the grip he has in Oikawa’s hair tightens, and then Hajime surges upwards, tugging Oikawa off him as he pushes himself up the bed until his shoulders are braced against the wall, still more lying down than sitting.

He doesn’t actually refuse, but he can’t let Tooru see how much he does want to _kiss him down there_ , and to cover flush of arousal that’s making his face burn he fists a hand into the front of Oikawa’s shirt, yanking the material down until the junction between neck and shoulder is bared. He pulls Oikawa down and bites into the flesh, hard, then sucks at the reddened marks, determined to leave his own signature on Oikawa’s pale skin.

Somehow, he ignores his own erection, focusing on Tooru’s. He gets one hand past the waist of the sweatpants his time, pulling the material down to mid-thigh. This time, he rubs Tooru’s cock through his boxers, half-pumping it.

“Maybe if you shut up, I’ll think about it.” he rasps against the bob of Oikawa’s throat, and then presses a chain of open-mouthed kisses up his jawline. Hajime is still more out of breath than Oikawa is; this needs to change, now.

 

* * *

 

Tooru inhales sharply at the more direct touch against his boxers, throwing his head back and accidentally baring more of his neck. He smiles when Hajime doesn’t deny him, pushing his other hand up under Hajime’s sweatshirt, the fabric riding up along his arms, baring more of his stomach. He pushes himself up to sit, straddling Hajime again. His sweatpants crawl a bit up his thighs again, but they’re stuck under his ass, meaning his boxers are still mostly free. This time, he’s sitting further up than before, by Hajime’s hips, straightening his back completely to move out of reach from Hajime’s mouth. His skin is burning hot everywhere Hajime is or has already touched him, but he isn’t sure if it’s from want or desperation, too desperate for friction, _more_ of it, to properly figure out his feelings. Looking down at Hajime after straightening his back, Tooru smirks again. The air is crisp against where Hajime has mouthed over his neck, saliva drying but skin still sensitive where he bit down.

“Patience, Iwa-chan—I already told you _where_ I wanted your mouth,” he says, focusing his fingers on _both_ nipples now that he has both hands under Hajime’s sweatshirt, biting his lip as he looks down at Hajime to watch his reactions. He can’t help but jerk his hips into Hajime’s hand, and _god help him,_ he refuses to come simply from that, he wants—he grabs Hajime’s wrist, pulling his arm up so his hand is next to his shoulder before crawling further up his chest, pressing a knee to each of Hajime’s shoulders, holding him down, his crotch also getting _awfully_ close to Hajime’s face. Tooru doesn’t hide the fact that he’s staring at Hajime’s mouth now, eyes having gotten more used to the darkness. He pushes his hips upwards slightly towards Hajime, biting his lip impatiently again. Tooru inhales deeply, to calm his own breathing.

“Hajime?” he asks, barely above a whisper, reaching down to grab a stray eyelash off of Hajime’s cheekbone. Then he smirks, tilting his head to the side, waiting for Hajime to either go at it or chicken out.

 

* * *

 

Hajime doesn’t duck his head fast enough to hide his face as his expression briefly contorts in pleasure, torso twisting under Oikawa’s hands. The fact that Oikawa is just _watching_ him makes it better and worse somehow, and while Hajime’s distracted he feels his arm being yanked up, and does nothing to pull it back. Oikawa’s not playing fair; Hajime isn’t that surprised.

The pillow’s been pushed up so much that it’s bunched tightly under the back of his neck; like this, he doesn’t have to strain… but it does also elevate him enough for Oikawa’s purposes.

He finally looks up at Oikawa again, embarrassed at his awareness of how he must look. Hair mussed, eyes lidded, shirt rucked up to his chest. Oikawa pinning him down, that challenging smugness in the smirk on his lips that Hajime wants to bite at, or cover with a kiss.

Somehow, it feels like he’s lost this one. But what did it say about him that he hadn’t really been fighting as hard as he could have? For the first time in their history, it’s like he’d _wanted_ to lose, even though (for also the first time) he doesn’t know where Oikawa stands with him now.

Was it his trust in Tooru? One so inextricably embedded in Hajime’s nature that he’d still say yes, even if Oikawa uses him as a means to his own end?

He tears his gaze away at the sound of his given name-- _Oikawa is not playing fair--_ and tries to focus on what he wants to do.

Slowly, his gaze hooded and his face flushed, Hajime pulls down the only layer left clothing Oikawa’s dick. He swallows, wishing he could use his only remaining free hand as well, but the way he’s pinned means that he can’t reach in front of Tooru at all.

Still not looking at Oikawa, he leans forward just a little, eyes glazing over a little as he presses his lips to the base of Oikawa’s cock. A shiver runs through him; he can feel just from the slide of skin that it’s still too dry, and with a small, stifled noise he begins to use his tongue as well. He presses continuous open-mouthed kisses against Oikawa’s cock, his eyes falling shut. Mouthing across hot, hard flesh, occasionally lapping small strokes, he lets the saliva build up until his lips and the corners of his mouth as wet as well, only moving on once that area was slick enough.

The soft, smacking noises filling the air makes the back of his neck and his face burn, but he works his way up Tooru’s cock, his hand gripping the back of Oikawa’s thigh. His perception’s narrowed down to just a few things now: how Tooru tastes, how he feels, how he smells, the way his body is reacting, and last of all, Hajime’s own arousal, still trapped under his jeans. He feels like he’s actually _harder_ than before, and his fingers dig into the soft skin of Oikawa’s thigh at the thought.

By the time he’s worked his way to the tip, his mouth is slick with his own spit. His heartbeat echoes the throbbing in his groin; he wants to be touched so much, _needs_ it… but before that, one more thing.

He presses one more kiss just against the underside of Oikawa’s length, then pulls away slightly. His eyes flicker up to Oikawa’s briefly, and then Hajime shuts them again, shuddering as he leans forward just as his hand pushes slowly pushes Oikawa, Hajime’s mouth opening to accommodate the width of him.

His lips close around Oikawa’s head as he sucks as best as he can; before Hajime knows what he’s doing, his tongue is instinctively pushing up to tongue at Tooru’s slit as he struggles to keep his mouth slack and open enough. It’s _difficult_ ; Hajime knows his jaw is going to be aching before long, and also it’s starting to get messy, drool pooling in his mouth and threatening to drip down as he struggles to keep from grazing Tooru with his teeth.

A frisson runs through him every now and then, in tandem with his throbbing arousal. Not really aware of what he’s doing, his hand drops slowly from Oikawa’s thigh and to his own crotch as he continues sucking on Oikawa’s cock. Dragging the zipper down and the front of his underwear along with it, he palms himself with desperation, letting out a small whimper of pleasure and relief around Tooru once he finally touches himself.

 

* * *

 

Tooru bites his lip when Hajime first leans in, definitely not to hide the sound of his breath hitching. He keeps his eyes on Hajime’s face, hips slowly, barely pressing forward when he starts mouthing over Tooru’s cock, slicking it with saliva. The wet sounds are awfully loud in the quiet of the room, but to Tooru they’re less embarrassing as sexy, almost as arousing as the lips on him when combined with the flush on Hajime’s cheeks.

Tooru reaches up, carding his fingers through Hajime’s hair, scrunching his nose slightly when he feels the small bump _he_ put there with the vase, feeling bad for a moment, especially when looking down at Hajime like this, so cute and compliant, closing his eyes. Tooru’s mind blanks completely when Hajime takes him into his mouth, though, and he has forgotten all about the injury he inflicted when he feels the tongue against his slit, instantly jerking a bit forward again.

Tooru grabs Hajime’s hair properly this time, not enough to hurt, or keep him in place, since he’s already pressed up against the wall.

It takes a few seconds for Tooru to realise what Hajime is doing when he moves his hand behind Tooru’s back, _feeling_ when Hajime lets out the whimper around his cock. When he does notice Hajime palming his own erection, and when he does, Tooru instantly reaches behind himself with his other hand, pulling Hajime’s hand away and stopping him, despite knowing how desperate he must be for friction at this point.

“Iwa-chan, aren’t you going to wait for your turn?” he asks, voice only a bit more shaky than he’d like it to be, as he pulls Hajime’s hand up to the side, intertwining their fingers. He only realises the possible implications of it a moment later, letting go instantly and grabbing Hajime’s wrist instead, to keep him from trying to touch himself again.

Tooru has already moved forward a bit by now, he realises, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing in further, not that he isn’t already satisfied with the wet heat surrounding him, but desperate for _more_ and _deeper,_ and a tiny, tiny part of him also desperately wants to see how much Hajime can take. He makes another involuntary thrust into the back of Hajime’s mouth, instantly pulling back slightly, releasing his hold on Hajime’s hair to slide his hand down his cheek, cupping his jaw and leaning back a bit to see if he’s okay.

It’s kind of funny, he thinks. When thinking of Hajime’s mouth, it was usually in relation to the string of curses, mostly directed at Tooru, coming from it. Right now, there’s nothing he wants to fuck more. On the contrary, he has no idea how long Hajime has been considering this, though. Well, probably not _exactly_ this.

 _If_ Hajime has been fantasizing about this moment, Tooru is pretty sure he had imagined it _far_ from how it’s going right now, and if he wasn’t so fucking turned on, he’d probably feel worse about it.

He slides his thumb up over Hajime’s cheek, wiping the drool off of the corner of his mouth, and then he pushes in again, slower this time.

 

* * *

 

Hajime jerks when Oikawa yanks his hand away, a strained, muffled protest escaping his filled mouth. It’s a power move; Tooru won’t touch him, won’t let Hajime touch himself. When his arm is yanked up to join the other, his hand squeezes back reflexively against Tooru’s fingers-- it makes his heart speed up, like this _isn’t_ just about sex, but only for a second; next moment the grip is gone, Oikawa’s having shifted to trap Hajime’s wrist.

Before he can yank at his twitching, restrained arms-- _at least let me have this, you ass_ , he thinks-- the tip of Oikawa’s cock brushes the back of his throat, more than Hajime’s had in his mouth all this time. He gags, throat convulsing, dampness pricking at the corner of his eyes even as the intrusion pulls back as quick as it’d come, not doing much more than catching him by surprise.

He feels a hand on his cheek and leans into it, comforted, gasping as he tries to catch his breath around the cock still in his mouth; he’s well aware he’s new to this, and with everything else he’s usually self-assured enough that he doesn’t really need constant assurances from other people… but this is Oikawa, and this is something he’s never done before. Any soft touch, any intimacy, seems like an inexplicable comfort to him right now.

Sucking around his cock helps a little as Tooru pushes in again, slowly, and this time Hajime manages not to choke, even leaning forward a little until his lips are all but closed around just above the base of Oikawa’s dick. His body’s making little shivers of protest; the angle isn’t ideal, and Tooru’s dick is slightly curved, making deep-throating him in this position a feat, but Hajime forces back the impulse to pull back and swallows as best he can, wanting to pull as much from Oikawa as Oikawa has pulled from him. It’s as messy as it can be: when he pulls back only few centimeters only to sink back as far as he can on Tooru’s cock, he drools freely around the length, slicking it up even more. His jaw aches, but the sensation is distant, secondary to everything except how sloppy he’s getting, fucking his own mouth on Oikawa’s cock.

 

* * *

 

“Ha—ah, Iwa-chan,” Tooru gasps, no longer able to keep his voice under control. He hadn’t expected Hajime to actually go at it like this, accommodating his length after his throat convulses and he gags, the fact that he’s even _trying_ so hard being even more arousing in an odd way Tooru can’t quite place.

He leans in over Hajime, curling over until his forehead is pressed against the wall over Hajime and he accidentally — well, maybe not completely — pushes in a bit deeper again.

Pushing Hajime’s head in against the wall, he starts thrusting a bit harder, slow at first to see just how much Hajime can take without it getting completely unbearable for him. He knows he’s definitely not as gentle as he’s supposed to be, but he also isn’t doing it hard enough for Hajime to be unable to push him away or make it obvious that he wants him to stop — in fact, even if Tooru did try putting in all of his strength, he’s pretty sure he’s so unsteady at this point that Hajime could _still_ push him off easily.

He isn’t sure if it’s because he hasn't done anything like this in a while or if it’s because it’s his first time actually fucking someone’s mouth, but he’s nearing his climax rapidly. The sloppiness isn’t even an issue, in fact he’s pretty sure it’s part of the charm, mixing perfectly with his shaky jerks that are becoming more and more unsteady as he nears the edge, accidentally thrusting a bit deeper again, reaching a hand up to hard it through Hajime’s hair, a bit rougher than intended, before he grabs onto it by the roots again, pulling at it as he comes, dissolving into pleasure and emptying his load down Hajime’s throat, gasping for air as he presses his forehead into the wall so hard it almost hurts.

Leaning back slightly, he pulls out a bit, not all the way, but enough that Hajime hopefully won’t have trouble breathing.

“Iwa-chan, that was— _fuck_ ,” he whispers, letting go of Hajime’s hair and sliding his hand down to his cheek, wiping a stray tear from the corner of Hajime’s eye.

His thighs are hurting, but he has to hold himself up a bit longer so he won’t put down all of his weight right on Hajime’s chest, and his entire body is already aching, begging for him to lie down.

“Eat up, will you?” he asks, surprising even himself with the lightness of his tone as he pats Hajime’s cheek lightly, making no move at pulling out completely before Hajime does as instructed.

He blinks slowly down at Hajime, reaching his hand up to cover his mouth and biting down at the back of his hand softly to stifle a yawn before he reaches down to caress Hajime’s cheek gently, blinking sheepishly down at him.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until Hajime’s hands fly up to dig into the backs of Oikawa’s thighs that he suddenly realises that they’re free. He should have realised sooner, really; the hands yanking his hair stings just enough for him to keep him on this side of coherent. His world is narrowed down to the musky smell of Oikawa, of his taste, of every noise he utters that sends a thrill through Hajime..

The sounds of Oikawa fucking his mouth sloppy are nothing short of obscene, with streams of saliva dripping down Hajime’s chin and splattering onto the hoodie and the hollow of his throat. It’s impossible to try and maintain any sense of control, so Hajime squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on keeping a seal around Tooru’s dick, hot and pulsing and spilling warm, salty fluid against his palate.

It doesn’t occur to Hajime to jerk himself off again; it seems enough that he’s leaving red trails against the backs of Tooru’s thighs as he pulls him ever closer. His chest is heaving with the breaths he’s unable to take much of, muffled noises of exertion escaping him now and then.

The grip in his hair tightens to the point of pain when Tooru comes, hot and heavy right up against the back of his throat. The force of it makes Hajime convulse again, coughing wetly around the throbbing hardness. The way Tooru tilts Hajime’s head back as he thrusts so hard that Hajime’s forehead presses against his stomach actually eases the passage a little, and he takes it as best he can, gagging a little despite his efforts to suppress the reflex. He feels his own cock twitch as hot semen fills his mouth. A little of it spills down his throat before another muffled cough clears his airway. (A noise escapes him, and it’s not until later that he notes with mortification that it was not one of disgust, far from it.)

Slowly, he peels his eyes open, feeling his lashes stick briefly together with the dampness that had accumulated. His vision is blurry; tears had spilled from his eyes at some point, though he doesn’t remember when. His hands are relaxing slowly, no longer digging into flesh, but even though Tooru pulls back enough that Hajime can breath a little better now, it’s still not enough.

He tries to slump back, but there’s nowhere for him to go, trapped as he still is against the wall. His mouth is still full, the ache even more pronounced than before as Oikawa still refuses to pull out.

His gaze shoots up to meet Tooru’s at his request. Then, seeing as Oikawa’s not about to budge, Hajime shuts his eyes and slowly swallows. It’s difficult, trying to do it with a dick in the way without digging his teeth into it, and there’s enough fluid that his throat clicks audibly. A hot flush of shame and arousal runs through him as he wraps his lips around Tooru and begins sucking him clean. Somehow, it feels more humiliating than being face-fucked, though he can’t fathom the reason why; not when he’d willingly done it, not when another shudder of arousal had run through him when he’d done so.

Not knowing what Tooru deemed enough, he laps and sucks until Tooru’s softening length is no longer slick, just damp. It’s much easier without his mouth overflowing with saliva, though his chin is still wet with spit. There’s an uncomfortable wetness at his crotch too, courtesy of his leaking cock, but Tooru’s warm palm against his cheek distracts him from it.

Everything is starting to come back to him now, every sensation he’s been pushing away: the aches at the back of his neck and his jaw, the intermittent trembling of his lower lip at the effort of keeping his mouth stretched this wide for so long, and his own straining arousal, still unsatisfied.

He makes a small, tired noise, looking up through hazy eyes at Tooru.

 

* * *

 

When he’s satisfied, Tooru pulls out slowly, pulling up his boxers and the sweatpants over his ass again. Crawling back until he sits with a thigh around each side of Hajime’s waist again, he pulls back his hand, bracing both against the bed on each side of Hajime before rolling off him so he’s lying on his side next to Hajime instead, pressed up against him. He blinks slowly, tiredly, for a few moments, exhaustion making his limbs heavy and his mind hazy, but the bed is still warm unlike the rest of the room, and Hajime is even _warmer,_ so he grabs his arm, pulling himself closer so he can nuzzle his entire face into the crook of Hajime’s shoulder.

“Your neck will get stiff, you should,” — he yawns, pressing his open mouth down against the side of Hajime’s neck, teeth grazing over the skin — “you should lie down too,” he says, sighing sleepily. He feels like there’s _something_ he’s forgotten, but right now he’s so spent he could collapse anytime, and all he wants is to snuggle in closer, capture all of Hajime’s heat, and sleep for a few more hours.

 

* * *

 

He gives a soft groan as Oikawa finally takes his weight off his shoulders, pushing himself down the bed so he’s lying properly once more. He wants nothing more than to massage his aching jaw, but as it is, his breaths aren’t still quite regulated yet, and he takes several moments to simply lie there, feeling strangely drained as the feeling slowly returns to his arms and his heaving chest quiets down.

Presently, the issue of his _still_ neglected arousal comes back to him. Hajime clears his throat, but he still isn’t prepared for how hoarse his voice sounds. He sounds _wrecked._

“Oikawa,” he rasps, wincing. He shakes his arm, feeling Tooru hanging onto the end of it like a limpet. “Hey.”

Then he actually looks over at him, and with a growing sense of incredulity he realises that Oikawa isn’t just resting, he’s _falling asleep_ on him.

“ _Oikawa_!” He can’t _believe_ him. Hajime shakes his arm even harder, indignation overwhelming the ridiculousness he feels at the situation.

“Asshole,” he hisses, trying to sound as threatening as possible with his ruined voice. It’s not nearly as effective as it would have been if he’d hadn’t just been throat-fucked. “I swear I’ll come all over your _face_ if you don’t help me out right now. Are you _kidding_ me.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru raises his head slightly, opening his eyes into small slits, squinting tiredly at Hajime. “That can be arranged,” he mumbles, not _completely_ awake enough to be aware of Hajime was actually saying, but not minding the idea of coming in his face — hell, he’d even lick it off after if Hajime asked nicely.

He lets go of Hajime’s arm, resting his head on his shoulder this time as he slides his hand down his body, fumbling for his crotch. He stops when he reaches it, pulling at the jeans and realising that the button is already open.

He presses his palm down over the boxers, nuzzling his nose into Hajime’s shoulder and yawning again before trying to open the zipper. It’s already almost down, and he could probably push his hand down under the boxers if he tried, but he wants the jeans _off_ , wants to touch as much hot skin as possible.

After fumbling for a little while, Tooru groans. “It’s so _hard,_ Iwa-chan…” he complains, already half asleep. “You’re so hard,” he adds, still having trouble with the zipper. Ideally, he’d be completely ready for another round already — he has several ideas for how to make Hajime come, preferably _untouched_. He’d like to explore the reactions Hajime had to his nipples being teased further, and if they could just find some _lube,_ he’d be able to… well. There should be lube somewhere, they were at a hospital, but right now all he wants to is sleep. Problem is, no matter how tired he is, he’s still conscious, and he’s still aware of what a dick move it’d be to not reciprocate the favor, maybe even to do it without touching Hajime’s dick. He doesn’t want him to think that Tooru has a problem with it — if Hajime could overcome the whole awkward ‘we’ve known each other since we were kids’ thing and pretty much let Tooru face-fuck him, Tooru can get over whatever reservations he has about fucking his childhood best friend. He _especially_ doesn’t want Hajime to think it’s because he has a problem with dicks in general, it wouldn’t be the first one he touched, yet—god, he _really_ wants to sleep.

Tooru slides his hand up to Hajime’s stomach before pushing his fingers under his boxers, finally reaching down to grab around his cock, pumping a bit lazily at it, thinking that the friction would be more comfortable if he had maybe spat in his hand before beginning. Well, if Hajime wants it done right away, he’ll have to make do with dryhand, Tooru thinks, tightening his grip the further up towards the head he gets, sliding his thumb over the slit, smiling into Hajime’s shoulder before he smears it out, listing his head slightly and resting his chin on Hajime’s shoulder to look up at him.

“Maybe if you look at my face, you’ll come faster,” he mumbles jokingly, blinking lazily up at him, smile growing wider.

 

* * *

 

“I--” Hajime starts, and then splutters into silence, not having expected Tooru to agree so readily. He’d meant it as a threat, knowing how meticulous Oikawa is about cleanliness, but Tooru just effortlessly backfired it on him. He tries not to think more closely about what he’d just said, and fails. His mouth goes dry again.

“You-- please stop talking.” he groans against Tooru’s bangs, having pressed his mouth to Tooru’s forehead to muffle himself. Oikawa had wrapped a hand around him just when Hajime had been on the verge of giving up, feeling Oikawa fumble with the opening of his jeans for way too long. There had been a momentary fear when Oikawa pulled the zipper-- what if he pulled it wrong and his dick got caught in it-- but thankfully that doesn’t happen.

His hips jerk repeatedly at Oikawa’s touch, and he gasps a little at the pressure, at the warm tunnel of Oikawa’s hand. He’s used to it being wetter, but the precum that Tooru’s smearing over him helps a little, and in any case he won’t be able to last for long. It’s weird; usually Hajime’s stamina is better than this, but apparently he really likes it when Tooru fucks his face.

Feeling his cheeks warming up again, he rolls his hips into Tooru’s hand, panting softly as he nears climax, having been so close to the edge for a while now that it’s not going to take much at all. He pulls away from Oikawa a little to speak, breathing fast.

“Ah-- wait, Oikawa.” He reaches down, trying to replace Tooru’s hand with his own. He’s starting to feel guilty about insisting that Tooru finish him off; he’s obviously tired, and it’s not like Hajime couldn’t have done it himself. He doesn’t want to make a mess all over Oikawa’s fingers either, and since he needs to clean himself off anyway (the spit’s drying fast on his chin and throat), he might as well do it alone.

“I’m close,” he says, panting softly. “You don’t have to… forget what I said, I can-- _ah_ \-- do it myself--”

 

* * *

 

Tooru snorts when Hajime tries to make him stop, straightening his fingers a moment to wave Hajime’s hand away, but never letting go, picking up the rhythm again as he continues teasing over the slit with his thumb once more, watching for Hajime’s reaction.

“Oh, already? Iwa-chan must really like me,” he says, instantly recognizing the guilt in Hajime’s voice, but not understanding _why_ he feels it — Tooru is still well aware that what Hajime asks for is much less than what he let Tooru do, and this is the least he can do. In fact, despite being close to falling asleep and his wrist already aching a bit — _god,_ he’s out of shape — he’s quite enjoying the sound of Hajime’s panting, simply from Tooru jerking him off lazily — he has _several_ much more complicated plans to get Hajime off in the future, and if he wasn’t so goddamn exhausted, he’d probably get hard again just thinking about it. For a second, he wonders if he should worry about his own new urge to completely wreck Hajime, considering their relationship and everything, but for now Hajime doesn’t seem to mind the least. Tooru tightens his grip, pressing closer to Hajime again, not caring that Hajime had probably moved away from him to, you know, get away.

“Hey, Iwa-chan, have you thought about doing this before?” he asks, completely innocent, eyes now on his hand instead, waiting for Hajime to come, eyes furrowing in concentration. “Wait, for how long have you liked me? Do you fantasize about—” another yawn interrupts him, and he presses his face down against Hajime’s shoulder again. “—about me?” he adds, turning to look up at Hajime, raising an eyebrow and giving him a smile that definitely doesn’t look as innocent as he tried to make the questions out to be.

 

* * *

 

Why does Oikawa keep saying things that he has no idea how to answer without mortification washing over him? Is Hajime a prude after all? He’s never given thought to this question before. Or maybe it’s just Oikawa being his own embarrassing self, but then why does he have to drag Hajime down with him?

Yes, he wants to come on Tooru’s face, yes, he’d probably actually come faster looking at him, yes he _really_ likes him, yes he’s thought/dreamt/ _fantasized_ about Tooru before, yes, yes, _yes_. God _dammit._

He makes a noise (a cross between pleasure brought about by his oncoming orgasm and despair by the revelation by how far gone he is for the man beside him) and grabs Tooru with the hand nearest to him, his fingers digging into the inside of Tooru’s thigh. Oikawa seems determined to finish the job, so Hajime doesn’t fight him, but he does cover Tooru’s hand with his free one; when Hajime finally comes (his hips jerking in prolonged spasms as he arches his back into Oikawa’s hand and stifles his moans in his throat) it spills over his own fingers instead of dirtying Oikawa’s.

He accidentally knocks his head against Oikawa’s as his eyes flutter shut, seeming to sink into the mattress as he catches his breath, coming down from his prolonged climax. When he can speak again his voice is still hoarse, but not as bad as before.

“I’ve liked you since high school, even if I didn’t know it at the time,” he murmurs, not opening his eyes even as he lifts his sticky hand away from Tooru’s. He’s gotten the worst of it, thankfully. “So feel free to draw your own conclusions.”

Then, a little more awkwardly, he adds. “Thanks.” Feeling the warm cum starting to cool on his skin, he grimaces and opens his eyes again. “Be right back,” he mutters, starting to pull away again. “I need to clean up. Stay there, I’ll bring you a wet towel.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru wipes the palm of his hand off at the exposed skin right by Hajime’s hipbone, despite not actually having gotten much on his hand, thanks to Hajime’s intervention. He looks up at Hajime as he starts to pull away, raising his hand to his mouth and licking at his thumb, just once, eyes fixed on Hajime to make sure he sees it.

After that, he lies back down, moving slightly to the side on the mattress so there’s room for Hajime when he returns, lying his head back down onto the pillow with a small, content sigh, eyes fluttering closed instantly as dreariness takes over, as if his body suddenly realises that he’s allowed to fall asleep again now.

He should probably have a stronger reaction to Hajime’s admission, probably feel ashamed that he didn’t notice his feelings — or ever consider the nature of his _own_ — during all this time, and he probably would if this was just an accidental late night get together induced by alcohol, but it’s not. It’s still early morning, it _may_ have been influenced by their unfiltered early-morning-barely-awake state, and it may cause some awkwardness in the future, but right now, all Tooru feels is contented and at ease, and it’s not _only_ his post-orgasm bliss making him feel like that. Tooru _is_ attracted to Hajime, and if the excitement he felt yesterday wasn’t enough to prove that to himself, then this morning surely was. Tooru is aware that he was the one who got what he asked for this time, probably mostly because he caught Hajime by surprise, but he already has plenty of ideas for how to make it up to him, and if he wasn’t so exhausted right now, he’d be ready to make those ideas a reality right now. At least Tooru knows they’ll have a lot of alone time together in the future, since it’s not like they know if anyone else is alive at this point. Tooru pushes away the thought as quickly as it arrived, refusing to let the severity of the situation they’re in ruin his mood right now. He can worry about the end of the world after he’s napped. Blinking slowly, Tooru instantly realises he won’t be able to keep awake before Hajime returns, even if he only spends a moment in the washroom, his mind and body too weary to keep conscious for even a minute longer. He shuts his eyes, eyelids heavy, and chokes back another yawn before turning over, falling asleep once more, snoring lightly.

 

* * *

 

Unsure at first of what Oikawa is doing, it's not until Hajime is staring at Tooru licking his come off his thumb that he realises what he just did. Another dull flush of heat ripples through Hajime and he makes his escape to the bathroom before Tooru gets the bright idea of licking it off _Hajime’s_ hand as well, wondering how the hell has he not noticed how lewd Tooru could be.

The floor is cool under his bare feet. After he cleans himself up and tucks himself back in, he splashes cold water over his face, and the shock of it clears the last of the haze he feels like he’s been in for the past twenty minutes.

Bangs dripping, he braces his hands on the sink and stares at himself in the mirror as best aa he can with the wan, very-early-morning light from the window. Rain pounded against it, a white noise that blends in seamlessly with his thoughts. The face staring back at him still looks sleep-befuddled, and though his face isn’t red anymore the tips of his ears are slower to fade, and they give him away instantly. His hair, too. It’s not just bedhead; if he walked outside right now he feels like even the walkers would know instantly that he’d just been facefucked, and they weren’t even alive.

He lets out a breath, then rubs his eyes. A few minutes pass.

He just had sex with Oikawa.

_He had sex with Oikawa._

It had happened so _fast_ , and when Oikawa had asked, he’d just _given in_ just like that. Under any other circumstance, Hajime thinks he wouldn’t have let it go so far; under any other circumstance, he’d have made sure that _Tooru_ was sure that this is what _Tooru_ wanted as well. Both their instincts are usually spot-on, it’s why they have the innate confidence to act first and ask questions later, particularly in conjunction with each other, but this had all been too rushed. Neither of them had been thinking, they’d just done it. Hajime doesn’t quite know how to feel about that right now, just that maybe this time they should have thought it through first.

Then again, perhaps Oikawa wouldn’t have propositioned him if it _had_ been under any other circumstance. It’s only because of how uncertain (how potentially _short)_ their lives had become that Hajime had answered Tooru’s question at all: he doesn’t want to die with regrets, with anything left unsaid between them. And dying _has_ become a painfully real possibility.

Still, he can’t help but notice that though Hajime has admitted what his feelings were (the kisses, the confession), Tooru still hasn’t said anything about his own. Yes, there’s (obviously) a physical attraction. But was there more beyond that? Is Hajime reading him right this time, or is he just confusing his own feelings with Oikawa’s need to reach out for anyone within his grasp right now? If it was just that, would Hajime be okay with being just an end to Tooru’s needs?

Hajime dries himself with a hand towel, then heads back towards the room. A few steps away from the bed, he stops and looks down at Tooru’s frame, already back asleep. Hajime’s gaze softens.

 _You used me_ , he thinks without venom, leaning over to pull the covers up over Tooru’s shoulders properly. He’d had half a mind to go back to sleep as well when he’d left the bed, but now that he’s awake, he finds himself getting restless. He needs to _do_ something; sports has always been his go-to outlet for when he can’t figure out or put a label to his emotions, but his preferred methods were no longer an option now.

So Iwaizumi settles for the next best thing. The hoodie had been comfortable, and he wants to keep it as his indoor clothes, so he changes into another shirt and slips into a jacket pulled from the trolley. Before he leaves with the machete slung over his shoulder (not because he’ll need it, but as a habit), he scribbles a note and puts it on the bedside table:

 _im at the sniper nest, gonna thin out some of the horde while its raining_  
_bring breakfast (not sweet)_  
 _dont sleep in too long_  
 _idiot_

As he leaves the room and bars the door, his mind wanders again. Yes, Tooru had used him. So why doesn’t he feel used?


	15. lesson, firsts

When Tooru wakes again, he stretches his body tiredly, instantly realising he’s alone in the bed when his arm doesn’t hit another body as he stretches it to the side. Sitting up slowly, he looks around, noticing the note and grabbing it.

He chuckles at the ‘idiot’ at the end, deciding that it’s as close to an ‘ _I love you’_ from Hajime’s side as one can get, and then remembers the fact that Hajime _has_ confessed his feelings already, grimacing. He’s been so blind.

He puts down the note, standing up and stretching again, his back cracking once and his entire body complaining at the action, sore like after a particularly hard week of practice. He’s almost embarrassed thinking about how little he’s actually been moving considering how sore he is, but reminds himself that he did just wake up from a coma. Recovering as soon as possible is better than overexerting himself right away.

He walks over to the carts, noticing Hajime’s hoodie slung over one of them and reaching out for it, a shiver running through him as if only now realising how cold it still is. He raises it to his nose carefully, looking around quickly, as if to check if Hajime is still in the room watching him, and then he inhales deeply, smiling into the fabric when he smells Hajime. He puts it down again after a moment of thinking, figuring that Hajime changed out of it for a reason, and then he turns to the food cart, leaning in over it to get a better view of the breakfast possibilities.

He grabs a can of corned beef, straightening up again, _definitely_ not breathing a bit harder simply from leaning down to grab a can. He closes his eyes as he tries to relax again, trying to remember what else he needs. Right. The pocket knife.

Turning around, he spots it almost instantly on the bedside table, close to where the note had been when he woke up, walking over to grab it to bring along with the can.

After grabbing the food, Tooru sits down on the floor next to his shoes, putting them on and tying them, feeling a bit awkward about having to do that simply to put on his shoes, but he still doesn’t trust his balance or strength enough to do it standing, and… maybe sitting down and standing up is good practice too. When he stands up again, he turns towards the carts once more, eyeing the hoodie again. In the end he decides to grab the hoodie anyway, pulling it down over his head and hugging himself for a moment, instantly feeling less cold. Maybe Hajime just didn’t want to wear it himself and found something better. It’s not like Tooru can’t take it off it that isn’t the case anyway.

He leaves the room, pocket knife and can in hand, and then starts walking down towards the stairwell, remembering pretty clearly where the sniper nest is, not as much because of the location itself but because of the insufferable walk up the stairs he had to take after when he was already so sore the day before.

Walking down the stairs is easier, of course, and thinking back to how tough he _felt_ like the walk was, he almost feels embarrassing. He used to be in such good shape, and now just a few stairs could completely tire him out.

When he finally spots the room, he picks up his pace, stopping in front of the door and knocking twice.

“Iwa-chan?” he asks, loud enough to hear but not too loud either, not wanting to break the silence, the only thing he hears being the rain still falling hard outside. For some reason, he doesn’t think sneaking up on Hajime would be a fun joke any longer.

 

* * *

 

The day is turning out to be even more overcast and rainy than Iwaizumi had expected, the air muggy and humid with barely a breath of wind while rain torrented down in sheets. In short, it’s as close to ideal for Iwaizumi’s purposes. He settles down onto a table, un-slings the machete, rests the rifle on the sill, and gets to work.

It’s been some time since he’d done this, and shooting a hunting rifle wasn’t like shooting a handgun. It takes him the better part of half an hour and more missed rounds than he’d had in a while to get reacquainted with the weapon again. He stays patient, refocusing himself before each shot, taking the time to line up the sights before squeezing the trigger, and an hour later the corpses begin falling with more and more regularity. The thunderous roar of rain masked the loud crack that came with each shot, and bit by bit, Iwaizumi began losing himself in the task, thoughts of Tooru and the morning’s… _activity_ ebbing away.

Aim, exhale, fire. Cycle the bolt. Aim, exhale, fire. Cycle the bolt. Thankfully, what they do have in abundance is ammunition thanks to a raid on a gun store, but Iwaizumi makes each round count, letting none go to waste if he could help it. The walkers mill about aimlessly, the erratic movement and twitching of their head and limbs taking up all of Iwaizumi’s concentration as he lines up the shots. The heavy rain makes visibility low as well, but he doesn’t dare chance doing this on a clear day. With no rain and high winds, each resounding crack in the air would be like a homing beacon for the bandits.

Such is Iwaizumi’s focus on his task that at first he doesn’t hear the knock on the door, only hearing the sound of his own breath, the dashing of rain against the open window, and the dull ring of gunfire in his ears. It’s not until he _thinks_ he hears a faint call that he pulls himself from his reverie.

“In here,” he calls, turning away from the window before he does and tallying up the count. The horde is down by twenty, almost thirty walkers… but the courtyard is big, and there’s close to something like four or five _hundred_ on the hospital grounds, spilling in and out of the open gates.

Iwaizumi tries to think on the bright side. This just means more target practice for Oikawa, that’s all.

He sighs, putting the rifle down. He’s just realising that his shoulder is aching, the muscles in his arm trembling a little from the recoil and for being locked in one position for so long.

Holding out a hand, he feels the rain on his skin. It’s not cold at all; such was the climate of south-eastern states. Deciding a short break was in order, he pulls his legs up onto the table, sitting comfortably cross-legged.

Thoughts of Oikawa re-invade his line of thought again, and he purposely doesn’t look at Tooru as he comes in. Hajime doesn’t feel _nervous_ per se… but he doesn’t feel like he’d had with his other temporary lovers. With them, he’d felt mostly nothing afterwards. Well, not nothing, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this strange anticipation. Bottom line is, he’s just not used to this kind of situation: The Morning After.

Come to think of it, Oikawa probably is.

 

* * *

 

Tooru walks in, smiling at the view meeting him. Hajime looks oddly calm, the whole scene does, despite what Tooru _knows_ he’s been doing and the whole situation they’re in. The dull sound of the rain falling blocks out pretty much everything else and for a moment, Tooru doesn’t have a hard time ignoring everything but just the two of them right there as he walks closer, remembering what had happened earlier — the air is different now, but he doesn’t mind that, oddly enough he feels no awkwardness, and it’s not until he reaches the table and is able to look out the window as well that he has to remember the reality they’re in and also the reason Hajime wanted to meet here. Tooru looks down at the rifle, putting down the can on the table next to Hajime, leaning up against the side of it.

“You know, I’m not used to waking up alone,” Tooru admits, raising his eyebrows as he looks up. “Not unless it’s because I’m about to be served breakfast in bed. Instead you leave me freezing _and_ ask _me_ to bring you the breakfast? Horrible manners, Iwa-chan,” he says, fumbling with the pocket knife, still trying to find the damn can opener.

He’s not sure what’s going to happen now, after what they did earlier. He knows he’s had his fair share of casual hookups, but very rarely with people he was actually close to or friends with, because whenever sex was involved, _feelings_ always seemed to follow, and with that, awkwardness and jealousy. Tooru knows Hajime isn’t a jealous person, knows now more than ever when he looks back to all his attempts at getting a rise out of him, but it’s not really like there’s many people to be jealous of nowadays either. Tooru also knows that Hajime does indeed like him, and that Hajime probably already knows Tooru feels _something_ for him as well, except he isn’t sure what that something is. He had hoped that taking it a step further would prove more to Tooru than just the fact that yes, Hajime was attractive, and yes, even if it wasn’t unlikely for them to meet other living people again, Tooru probably wouldn’t find anyone he’d rather be with.

If it was anyone else, they’d probably assume he was in love as well. Maybe even assume they were a couple. Maybe, if Hajime was as dense as some people thought he was, he’d do that too. Tooru wouldn’t decline him. But Hajime isn’t, Hajime knows him better than Tooru knows himself, and Hajime is too damn _good_. If he wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t have let Tooru do anything this morning, not before he had given him an answer. It would be fair to demand that. Something for something. Except right now, Tooru still doesn’t have any clear answer.

Tooru isn’t used to questioning himself like this. He always knows what he wants, and he feels silly for being doubtful, because he _does_ want Hajime, in every way he’ll allow it. And part of him fears that Hajime would allow him whatever he asks for, another part of him wants to find out where the limit goes. He knows he’s never really been the most attentive boyfriend, but none of those people were Hajime — hell, even when he did date others, Hajime was still the most important person in his life. He shouldn’t try and compare now to before, and not just because of the different circumstances, but because Hajime is different from everyone else. Maybe it isn’t so strange for him to be confused — this is the most important person in his life, he doesn’t want to risk everything while still recovering from the shock of seeing how the world changed. He couldn’t live with making the wrong choice, and most importantly, Hajime doesn’t deserve that.

After fumbling with the pocket knife for a while, Tooru holds it out for Hajime to take with a groan, turning his face away as if the pocket knife has offended him personally.

“You do it, Iwa-chan,” he says, eager to get it out of his hands. “The least you can do is open the can after I brought you breakfast and everything.”

He can’t help but snort at his own words — right. If anything, he’s the one who owes Hajime. His life, his love, a blowjob… maybe not in that order.

 

* * *

 

“My bad. Next time I’ll be sure to shove your breakfast down your throat and make you _eat up_ ,” Iwaizumi says in the most deadpan voice he can muster, turning to raise his eyebrows meaningfully at Oikawa as he parrots Oikawa’s own words from earlier. (Somehow, he doesn’t blush while saying it, though his ears feel just a little warmer.) Hiding his amusement, he snorts and takes the can and pocketknife.

As he methodically opens the can, he stares at Oikawa. Specifically, he stares at what Oikawa is wearing. Iwaizumi blinks. It's the hoodie he’d worn. On himself, it’d been a suitable fit. On Oikawa, it would have been a suitable fit as well, were it not for Oikawa’s diminished frame. It hangs more loose on his shoulders, giving it a baggy look, and… and Hajime is reminded forcefully of girls wearing their boyfriend’s clothes and achieving that same look.

Distracted, he pulls at the newly opened lid just a bit too carelessly. His thumb slips, and Hajime lets out a tiny “ow” as he cuts the pad of his thumb open on the rim. Hurriedly, he sets the can down before his blood can get into the food.

It’s stupid, really; he and Oikawa have been accidentally wearing each other’s clothes since they were boys, and because Iwaizumi’s shoulders had filled out just a little more than Oikawa’s, Oikawa had more of a penchant for wearing his shirts rather than the other way around. Yet, Iwaizumi’s never thought about it quite like this before.

Suddenly, a stray memory from high school floats up to the front of his mind. First year of high school, during a training camp. Third night. Oikawa had been last to come in from the showers, and when he entered the room, yawning, Hanamaki had suddenly squinted at him and asked, hey, wasn’t that shirt the one Iwaizumi had been wearing for the past two nights? They’d all looked, and yes, yes it was. No wonder Iwaizumi had had to settle for a sleeveless one instead; Oikawa had taken his pajamas.

Iwaizumi had rolled his eyes and told Oikawa to give it back, Oikawa laughed and said nope, too late. Far too used to experiences like this in the past, Iwaizumi had just thrown a pillow at Oikawa’s face and dropped the matter. Iwaizumi stole one of Oikawa’s shirts as revenge the next night, and they’d worn each other’s pajamas for the rest of that camp. Come to think of it, he’s not actually sure if they even changed back.

Suddenly, Iwaizumi realises that the look on Hanamaki’s face had been that of someone watching a relentless display of PDA. Iwaizumi hadn’t been able to decipher that at the time, but now…

Back in the present, Iwaizumi stares at the small drop of blood beading on his thumb. Just how obvious _and_ oblivious had he been? Because, wow.

But at the thought of their old friends, Iwaizumi feels a lump rise in his throat, as it always did when he thought of the past. Hurriedly, he stops thinking down that path.

 

* * *

 

Tooru bites his lip at Hajime’s comment to hold back his smile, but it doesn’t stop the corners of his mouth from curling up into a small smirk anyway as he remembers what he had said — okay, that was a bit tasteless of him, he thinks. Hajime didn’t seem to mind at the time, though.

He watches Hajime attempt to open the can instead, seemingly as distracted as Tooru were, and Tooru can’t help but smile at the thought, wondering if he should be feeling anything else than vaguely amused that this is how they act after what happened in the morning, but at least he feels no regret, and he’s immensely relieved that there’s no horrible awkwardness. Especially considering the fight they had the night before. If Tooru had known earlier how good of a distraction sleeping together was — and the fact that Hajime wanted to — he’d probably have taken advantage of that several times. Maybe it’s good that he only found out now, that they hadn’t taken it any further while still back home.

Tooru frowns when Hajime cuts his finger, leaning in to grab his hand before he stops himself, remembering the risk of infection, instead grabbing the can and moving it away so he can lean closer without having to pull at Hajime’s hand or fear pushing their breakfast over. Hajime still seems plenty distracted, so Tooru leans in, _tsk-_ ing as he looks at the small drop of blood, resisting the urge to just plop the finger into his mouth like he would if it was himself who got cut.

“Be more careful, Iwa-chan!” he says, well aware that he can’t really joke about Hajime being unable to open it when he himself gave up moments ago. “How did you even survive without me for the last few months?” he asks, before remembering that Hajime _had_ actually been out there fighting for his survival _and_ Tooru’s. He turns to look around in the room as if expecting bandaids or whatever else they could use to just lie out randomly in plain sight, figuring that it wouldn’t actually be that unrealistic since they are at a hospital. He’s pretty sure Hajime had something they could use back in one of the carts, but it _is_ just a small cut, and running all the way back up the stairs simply for a bandaid or the like also seems a bit overdramatic. Turning to look back at Hajime, Tooru decides that he probably knows better himself, since he’s the one who’s been awake and surviving these last few months, and he’s the one who knows the most about the risks of infection. If Hajime isn’t concerned about it, it probably isn’t a big deal.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi pulls himself back to the present, making no move to pull his hand away from Oikawa. He pats the rifle at his side with his free hand instead.

“Don’t worry, I had _her_ to protect me. We’ve formed a very close relationship while you were away.” he says dryly, running a finger down the firearm in what was almost a caress. It’s just the usual banter between him and Tooru, of course, but the grain of truth embedded in his words makes the joke slightly less casual.

Impatiently, he waves Oikawa away, wiping his thumb on his shirt carelessly. “Never mind it, it’s just a cut.”

He looks at Oikawa, finally meets his gaze for the first time since he’d entered the room. Iwaizumi waits for the awkwardness to set in, but it doesn’t. Oikawa himself doesn’t seem to be bothered by what they’d done either. At least, Iwaizumi can’t see anything resembling regret on his face.

It might be best to examine the reasons for why neither of them are seemingly affected by the usual morning-after awkwardness, but Iwaizumi chalks it up to the fact that they simply know each other too well to be jarred off each other’s wavelengths, even when they crossed into unknown territories. Above all else, they’ll always be friends, best friends, no matter what happened between them. The thought brings him comfort on an almost fundamental level.

He nudges Oikawa, picking up the can to give it to him.

“I’m not hungry yet,” he says truthfully. “Watch me while you eat. It’ll be your turn next.”

Iwaizumi stretches his arms above his head, then rotates his shoulders, working out the kinks. Then he picks up the rifle again and presses the butt of it snug against his shoulder, propping the gun onto the window sill again. But he doesn’t bring his eye to the scope yet.

A (rather large) part of him argues that the firearm lesson can come later. Wouldn’t it better to actually talk about what just happened, to work out just what the fuck they did while it was still fresh in their minds? But another part argues that there’s no need to break the peace just yet, that they had all the time in the world to figure out the exact nature of their feelings.

Iwaizumi does wants to talk. But for once, he’s not sure how to approach Oikawa with this particular subject.

 

* * *

 

Tooru gives Hajime a small smile as he meets his eyes, accepting the can and reaching out for the pocket knife again.

He pushes himself further in onto the table and pulls his legs up to sit in a cross-legged position as well, turned towards Hajime and watching with fascination as he stretches — Tooru _really_ should start doing that too, he’s still sore everywhere, despite barely moving around — and then picks up the rifle with practiced ease.

Tooru pushes the lid further up, cutting into the corned beef in the can and then sticking the knife into the cut-off part, raising it to his mouth and eating it. It tastes—well… Tooru tries to keep his expression neutral, relieved that at least the saltiness makes it more bearable.

Hajime looks completely comfortable and at home with the rifle in his hands, even though he hasn’t started shooting just yet. It’s still odd, though, Tooru thinks, added with the haircut and his bruises, his still healing eye for one. He looks like a completely different person, and while Tooru had been pretty good at denying it, what happened between them this morning could also be another proof of this. Would the old Hajime have stopped him? Would he even let Tooru go this far — would _Tooru_ even have gone that far in the first place? There are still a lot of questions he’d like answered, but he has no idea how to, and he’s immensely relieved that Hajime hasn’t brought it up yet, seemingly just as fine with the comfortable silence for now.

He turns his focus back to the can, trying to get out another piece to eat. The corned beef may not be as good as last night’s meal, but it’s still better than when they had room temperature baked beaks with nothing else.

Tooru chews on the next bite, looking up at Hajime again, remembering what he said — he was supposed to watch. He was supposed to go next. Right.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi casts a glance at Oikawa to make sure he’s watching, then presses his eye to the scope. The direction the wind is blowing the rain makes the windowsill wet, slightly slippery, and he has to brace the weight of the gun more firmly than usual. The curtains flap, and he lifts a foot to keep the fabric pressed down.

“Keep the barrel propped on the sill,” Iwaizumi says, keeping his gaze fixed to the scope. “Hold it steady against your shoulder, like how I’m doing.”

He’s got his sights on a walker that’s just swaying and standing in place, unaffected by the pouring rain.

“Don’t pull the trigger, just squeeze it gently until it fires.” he instructs, and then does exactly that. The walker’s head spins to one side, and it collapses. Once again, the gunshot sounds in the room, its echoes damped by the wind and rain.

Iwaizumi shifts, moving to another target. He cycles the bolt, the empty casing clattering to the ground. Another squeeze, another round, another walker dropped. He does this two more times before he lets out a deep exhale and lowers the gun down.

He raises his eyebrows at Oikawa. “Got it?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru watches in deep fascination, trying to pick up on every little detail — how Hajime holds his shoulders, the placement of his fingers, his elbow, everything that could have importance. He leans in to look out the window as well, spotting the victim and biting his lip, forcing himself not to think too deeply of the action. They’re _dead,_ he reminds himself. Or worse — Hajime is practically doing them a favour.

“Right,” he says, putting down the can and the pocket knife after having chewed on his third bite for way longer than necessary. “I think so,” he says, except he’s pretty clueless about everything except how to _hold_ the weapon now. He’s never shot a gun — at least not before _yesterday,_ and that was very, very close range. Well, the only way to learn is practice, and a lot of it. He doesn’t have much time. Tooru pushes the can further aside, moving closer to Hajime. “Can I try?”

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi nods, then slides off the table. Placing the rifle into Oikawa’s arms, he moves around the edge so he’s behind Oikawa; the table is longer than it is wide, and Iwaizumi is able to hover over his shoulder while staying standing.

He leans down over Oikawa, trying to get as close as he can to Oikawa’s perspective. Iwaizumi is well aware that he’s by no means a proper teacher for this sort of thing, and he must have picked up a thousand bad habits that a proper rifleman wouldn’t have. But the best he can do now is to show Oikawa a way that works. A way that’ll keep him alive.

“Mount the stock up to your right shoulder-- that’s the heavy end of the rifle there.” he instructs, unaware of his breath rustling the hairs on the back of Tooru’s neck. “Position it so your face presses against it when you look through the scope. Keep your left arm supporting the gun-- no, that’s too close to yourself, move it out further, right... here. The key thing is to be able to hold the barrel steady against your shoulder while you reload so you don’t lose your sight picture when tracking a target.”

He keeps one hand on Oikawa’s right arm, adjusting his positioning and his grip with little touches. Knowing how heavy a gun could feel, especially for a first-timer, Iwaizumi presses himself against Oikawa’s back (even through the hoodie, Tooru is warm, he notices) so his left arm can reach under Oikawa’s own and come up to help support Oikawa’s wrist and forearm, sharing the weight of the gun.

Gently, he covers the fingers of Oikawa’s right hand with his own, moving them for him as he demonstrates.

“This is called cycling the bolt. Reloading.” he says, his voice low and steady as he concentrates on showing Tooru how it’s done. “Grip this knob here, then push it up, then back. Don’t worry about being fast or smooth, that’ll come with practice.”

He lifts the knob with Oikawa’s fingers, letting him get a feel for how it’s done, then pulls it back. The empty casing from his last round flips out of the chamber with a click, dropping to the floor to roll away.

Iwaizumi pauses then, but he doesn’t move away from Oikawa. “One magazine holds five rounds. That’s four spent, one still left unfired in the chamber. Do you want to try shooting, or do you want to watch me again?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru does as instructed, trying to fix the small details Hajime points out, following Hajime’s motions as he corrects Tooru with light touches.

He had expected the rifle to be extremely heavy — not just because knew as much about weapons, but because even holding things that aren’t as heavy is quite a feat for him nowadays with his lack of strength — but with Hajime’s help it isn’t much of an issue, at least not until Tooru becomes aware of their position.

Suddenly he’s too aware of everything — Hajime's chest against his back, his his arm under Tooru’s for support, and his fingers, warm where skin meets skin. Even his breath is hot against Tooru’s neck, but he still has to force back a shiver, breathing out a short _‘ha’_ at his own pathetic reaction, how his body is unwillingly tensing up and now _he’s_ the one unable to think of anything but their bodies being this close, what they were doing not that long ago—

He turns his face slightly to the side to look up at Hajime, but realises too late how close their faces are, instantly turning back to face the window again.

“Uh,” he mumbles, trying to remember the question Hajime had just asked him. Right, shoot or not. He takes a deep breath, focusing on the feel of the rifle in his arms instead. Even though Hajime is supporting it, he can still feel how heavy it is, the metal cold, contrasting how warm Hajime feels against his back. Worst is, this is a _classic_ flirting trick, Tooru has even used it himself on much easier victims, but Hajime is too dense to even think up a plan like that, probably doesn’t even have any ulterior motives. Tooru almost feels disappointed about this. “I want to try,” he says instead, leaning his head down so his eye is in line with the rifle, better able to aim. Taking a deep breath, he leans back against Hajime, slowly aiming it down against the infected in the courtyard. He picks a target, staring at the figure standing still, swaying slightly in place, as if having trouble with balancing properly. Suddenly, he doubts again — pulling the trigger feels much different than it did yesterday, and the weight of the gun suddenly feels completely wrong in his arms, against his shoulders, and he just wants to put it down and forget about everything but Hajime once more. Instead, he tightens his grip, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

“Iwa-chan?” he asks, barely audible above the sounds of the rain outside, not making any attempt at continuing further, his grip still so tense his fingers hurt a bit.

 

* * *

 

This close, he can feel every shift in Oikawa’s body, every movement and every heartbeat, and that’s how Iwaizumi knows that he’s tensed up. Iwaizumi doesn’t blame him; technically this isn’t Tooru’s first kill, but the first several times were going to be the hardest. It never got easy-- not for Iwaizumi at least, though he knows others that took actual pleasure in taking down the dead-- but it did get better, once you were used to it. Once you’d been attacked.

He feels Tooru take a deep breath and presses closer to him, wanting to reassure, wanting to comfort.

“I’m here.” Iwaizumi murmurs just loud enough for Tooru to hear, like they’re keeping secrets from the wind itself. “Keep your eyes on the target. Breathe with me.”

As their breaths sync perfectly in tandem to each other, Iwaizumi wraps his right hand more firmly around Oikawa’s own, and presses his index finger atop of Oikawa’s to slowly compress the trigger. Not pressing, but squeezing.

He exhales, and in the seconds before and after the sound of the ringing gunshot, doesn’t breathe at all.

Below them, the walker falls to the ground, a neat hole in its head. Iwaizumi smiles. Oikawa had lined up the shot perfectly.

“Well done.” he breathes, relaxing, once again becoming aware of the weight of the gun in their hands. He draws back slightly and lowers his hands, taking the weight of the weapon with him. After a brief hesitation, Hajime reaches with his right hand and tilts Oikawa’s face upwards, kissing his cheek. It was meant as a simple sign of a job well done, but it makes Iwaizumi suddenly aware of how close they are, and, well. Oikawa took the first step this morning, so… why shouldn’t he?

 

* * *

 

Tooru exhales slowly, forcing his breathing to stay in sync with Hajime’s, calm and consistent, waiting for his heartbeat to also return to normal as he releases his stiff hold on the rifle as Hajime pulls it down.

He stares at the body on the ground, the view diluted by the rain still falling, making everything more grey. He felt a certain rush as the bullet hit, something stemming from the same place the satisfied feeling when he hits a perfect service ace comes from, except completely disparate. There’s a huge difference between scoring a point for your team and killing someone, even though you could argue if it is really alive anymore at this point.

He leans back slightly against Hajime’s chest, pressing his eyes shut and taking another breath, relieved that he at least managed to aim properly, unless Hajime had discreetly been fixing the angle before pulling the trigger with him — or, well, pulling felt like the wrong word, he thinks. More like squeezed at it, slowly and much gentler than Tooru had expected, the recoil reduced by Hajime’s support as well.

When Hajime tilts his head slightly upwards, Tooru doesn’t even have time to react before he feels the featherlight kiss on his cheek before Hajime’s lips are gone again and his entire body stiffens again in shock. He turns his face further again, to look up at Hajime, but instantly regrets, instead leaning away from Hajime, only to try and turn around, feeling an instant need to face Hajime and be more in control of the situation.

He knows he shouldn’t react this violently to a simple cheek kiss, at least not after what they had already done this morning, but he doesn’t know what it means that he does indeed react like this, his heart skipping a beat while his instincts tell him to diffuse the situation. A cheek kiss is so … _intimate_ compared to what they did earlier, completely different in nature. Tooru turns over on the table, pushing his legs out over the edge of the table on each side of Hajime, looking up at him, eyes mistakingly focusing on his lips.

He forces himself to look down, reaching up to grab the side of Hajime’s jacket, trying to come up with _something_ to say.

“I never said thank you,” he says, looking to the side as he remembers how he had reacted to what Hajime had told him last night, how he had stayed to take care of Tooru. “For saving me. I’ll do my best to get better, so I can be, uh, of help as well,” his eyes dart over the rifle, then the table, before they fix on the can of corned beef, turning to look at Hajime. “You should eat!” he says, too quickly, pointing eagerly towards it, feeling his cheeks start to burn in embarrassment as he realises just how transparent he’s being, with Hajime acting so smooth, holding him like that, _kissing_ him, and Tooru panicking at the slightest show of romantic affection. This would be the perfect moment for him to kiss Hajime, but he still hadn’t had _any_ time to actually think of his feelings — in fact, he’d done a great job at ignoring them — and all of his instincts are simply telling him to try and distract Hajime, whether it’s by making him eat or repeating what had happened in the morning. Tooru instantly regrets not going for the second option.

 

* * *

 

Watching Tooru scramble to spin himself around on the table just to face Iwaizumi makes him smile in amusement-- maybe it’s because he’s used to Oikawa’s usual grace, but there’s just something oddly hilarious and relentlessly endearing about Tooru moving his bulk around like this, especially so awkwardly, all limbs and not-so-subtle positioning.

Iwaizumi lets him settle how he wants and makes no move to pull away from the hand grabbing his jacket, wondering what Oikawa is getting at. He blinks at the thanks-- had Oikawa thanked him? Iwaizumi honestly doesn’t remember because Oikawa’s gratitude and debt has never been his motivations for doing what he’d done-- and before he can say anything else Oikawa is already moving on to the subject of food.

Iwaizumi sets the gun down carefully beside Oikawa before his hands grasp Oikawa’s thighs, keeping Oikawa right where he is while Iwaizumi works out a response at his own pace. He says nothing in reply for several long seconds, simply casting his gaze over Tooru’s face and trying to get a read on him.

The way Oikawa had stiffened when Iwaizumi kissed him hadn’t escaped his notice, and as far as expressions and body language went, Oikawa seemed to be getting more and more flustered.

“You’re welcome.” Hajime says quietly. He hadn’t thought of Oikawa’s anger at him as ungrateful, even though he supposes he has a right to. Rather, he tries to think why Tooru is acting so jumpy over a kiss on the cheek.

They’ve known each other so long that he’s seen Oikawa in almost every way and in almost every situation imaginable. Hajime knows what Oikawa is like around the people he’s involved with, and not once has he actually seen Oikawa this caught off guard by anyone before. True, Hajime hasn’t experienced first-hand what dating Oikawa is like and how Oikawa acts towards a sexual or romantic partner, but as far as Hajime knows, he’s much more composed than this if past observations said anything.

A thought occurs to Hajime, something that makes his smile fade. Maybe Oikawa actually _is_ uncomfortable, but doesn’t want to tell Hajime because he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. It’s entirely possible; it’s becoming more and more apparent to Hajime that what they’d done that morning had been just sex and desperation for human contact, nothing else.

In any case, it’s clear that Oikawa is intent on changing the mood, and Iwaizumi decides to oblige him, ignoring the slightly crestfallen sensation his heart insists on feeling. For a moment, he’d had a faint hope that Oikawa would kiss him back-- they’re certainly in the right position-- but quashes the disappointment as misreading the mood.

Oikawa does not owe him anything. Not his life, nor his affections. It’s unreasonable for Hajime to project onto him while Tooru is still sorting through the confusion of waking up to this new life.

Iwaizumi turns his gaze from Tooru’s and steps away, lengthening the distance between them as he picks up the can. Now that Oikawa mentions it, he is hungry. And if Oikawa wants a change in subject so bad, Iwaizumi can do that too.

He clears his throat, nodding at the rifle. “You should keep practicing while it’s raining,” he says, and feels gratified that his voice betrays none of his earlier thoughts. Thinking back to the downed walker, he gives a small but genuine grin. “That was really good for your first time, but don’t get cocky. You’re gonna miss way more than you’re gonna hit. For now.”

He takes a bite of corned beef, feeling his tongue numb slightly at the saltiness. He wishes they had rice or bread to go with something this salty-- carbohydrates would make the meal much more filling too-- and the unaccessible cafeteria comes to mind once more. They should making clearing that place out a priority once Oikawa’s shooting gets up to scratch, he decides.

Suddenly remembering that the rifle chamber is now completely empty, he moves over to a nearby cabinet and pulls out three more boxes of ammunition, each one holding twenty cartridges. He places them on the table to join a fourth box already on there, open and half-empty from Iwaizumi’s earlier efforts.

“Cycle the bolt again, like how I showed you.” he says to Oikawa. “And just reload straight from the box. We’ve got ammo to spare, but make each shot count. We can’t afford to let anything go to waste.”

Hajime exhales through his nose, and then adds, more somberly. “I know it’s hard.”

He’s not talking about the mechanics of firing the gun anymore. Crossing over to the window, he pushes the curtain aside and looks out at the horde below them. “It might not seem right, taking them down from up here. I thought so at first, but then.... Then I realised that every time I pulled the trigger, I was keeping this place-- _you_ \-- a little more safe.”

He rubs absently at his left eye, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh… it might help, if you think of it in those terms. Just saying.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru watches Hajime pull back as the entire mood shifts, instantly regretting. He opens his mouth to say something, but isn’t sure what to say without making it obvious that he’s still doubtful — shouldn’t Hajime be happy that he’s really trying to think this through, that he’s serious about it, unlike any of the relationships he’s ever been in? He watches Hajime take a bite, listening closely when he starts describing the process of reloading. It doesn’t look quite as simple as in the movies, so he’ll probably have to ask for another display, but at least he didn’t fuck up completely on his first try.

He hadn’t even considered ammunition — Hajime seems comfortable enough with Tooru using it for practice, so they shouldn’t be in need anytime soon, but he still doesn’t want it to be a waste — he’ll have to get good, and he’ll have to do it fast.

When Hajime’s tone changes, into something that’s meant to be comforting, Tooru shifts, looking down at his hands. He knows — or at least hopes — that Hajime is aware that he’s no longer blaming him like he did the day before. He did learn his lesson, sort of, and Hajime is right. Right now, survival is their number one priority, and Tooru can’t afford even considering whether or not what they’re doing is right or wrong. Right now, all he can focus on is the fact that he’s alive, and that Hajime is alive with him. He’s not ready to think of the rest of the world, the few people they’ve gotten to know here, their friends and families at home…

Pushing himself down from the table, Tooru lands on both feet on the floor, keeping a grip on the edge to steady himself before he walks over behind Hajime, reaching both arms around his waist, resting his chin on Hajime’s shoulder, light enough for him to push him off again if he wants to - after Tooru’s confusing reaction to the kiss, he wouldn’t blame him - but discreetly locking his hands in place in front of Hajime, keeping him close. He suddenly realizes their positions from before are simply switched around, except Hajime had different intentions, the worst thing he could come up with being a cheek kiss.

“I’ll try and get better as fast as I can,” Tooru says, tilting his head slightly closer, pressing his lips against Hajime’s neck lightly. “You’ll be patient with me, right?” He asks, his lips traveling further up, to the spot by his jawline, right underneath Hajime’s earlobe, nibbling slightly at it with his teeth, hoping Hajime knows what he meant with it, not just asking for patience with his recovery. He releases his hold around Hajime’s waist, sliding his hand down to his hip, pressing up the hem of his shirt to slide his fingers over the bared skin underneath, waiting for Hajime to either push him off - which, after Tooru’s reaction, is fair - or welcome the development.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi does nothing to hide his surprise as Oikawa’s arms snake around his waist, sucking in a hissed breath. The curtain falls back over the window as his fingers slacken and his focus completely re-orients towards Oikawa’s presence right behind him. It’s not the first time he’s draped himself all over Iwaizumi, but the intentions now and the intentions in the past have never been more different, and it’s eliciting a markedly different response as well.

For the second time that morning he feels Oikawa’s lips on his neck, right at the sensitive spot under his ear, and for the second time Iwaizumi fails to suppress a reaction. Before he can stop himself he’s leaning back against Oikawa, tilting his head like he’s asking for more. Oikawa should know by now how sensitive Iwaizumi’s throat is, how much effort Iwaizumi has to put in to make himself rein in his bodily reactions (as children, it’d been his weak spot when it came to tickling too, instead of his ribs.)

… Which means Oikawa’s doing it on purpose. Which means either his libido is _really_ this heightened now, or he’s trying to change the subject. Or both.

Iwaizumi swallows, then forces himself to ignore the digits on the bare skin of his hip. He grasps at Oikawa’s hands, covering over them and intertwining his fingers between Oikawa’s to prevent him doing anything further. (If doing so also happens to keep Oikawa right where he is too-- warm and close and right up against Hajime-- well, that’s just a coincidence.)

“That depends.” he mutters, turning his head to glance at Tooru. “Are you slacking off from your shooting lesson?”

A pause. “Or are you just trying to catch up on four months of...um.” His mind is blanking on the exact term. “Non-release.” He tightens his grip on Tooru’s fingers, squeezing hard as he frowns.

 

* * *

 

Tooru lets Hajime intertwine their fingers, smiling at the action, welcoming the warmth. When Hajime turns his head to look back at him, he leans a bit to the side, resting his chin on Hajime’s shoulder, looking back at him with his most innocent smile.

“When have I ever slacked off?” he asks, biting his own lip and looking down at Hajime’s mouth, his lower lip healing where it had been split when Tooru had just woken up. He keeps looking at Hajime’s lips — the angle is a bit awkward, but if he wanted to, he could probably kiss him. He just needed to lean in a bit, raise his head, and aim for at least the corner of Hajime’s mouth, then hope for Hajime to kiss him back, maybe turn and make it a bit easier. He could lean in and kiss Hajime right now. He wouldn’t doubt it, if he wasn’t already doubting every single thing that was happening lately already. He had just woken up from a coma to a completely changed world, a completely changed Hajime, and no, he hadn’t figured out shit. In fact, he’d been trying his best not to think too hard about anything, not quite ready to face the reality he had woken up to just yet.

Tooru presses himself closer up against Hajime’s backside, pushing away those thoughts once more. He squeezes Hajime’s fingers, the angle a bit awkward when his hands are on top of Tooru’s. With a small sigh, he leans in closer again, nuzzling his face in against Hajime’s neck again, his nose right under his ear as he inhales deeply. “Hey, Iwa— _Hajime_. You know I wouldn’t just… do that to you,” he lowers his voice, well aware that Hajime can hear him when he’s this close, his lips grazing over the skin on Hajime’s neck as he speaks. “Right?”

 

* * *

 

He thinks he stops breathing at the sound of his given name. Actually, he thinks he stops doing a lot of things, including thinking.

Iwaizumi lets go of Tooru’s hands so he can half-turn within the arms encircling him. He feels like there’s a sickness rising within him; sick of waiting, sick _from_ waiting, and here is the source and the cure of that sickness here in front of him. His for the taking, if need be.

His opposing arm reaches up and he grabs Oikawa almost roughly by the back of his neck, yanking him to Iwaizumi’s level.

“I’m alright with that,” he breathes against Tooru’s lips, his eyes dark. “If it’s you.”

He leans in, closing all distance because fuck it, if Tooru won’t kiss him, he’s just going to have to do it first. Dimly he realises he’s abandoning his resolve to stay as neutral as he can while Tooru figures his shit out, but there’ll be time to regret it later. Right now, all Iwaizumi focuses on is kissing Tooru, slow and careful and trying not use teeth because if he does he’s probably going to end up accidentally making Tooru’s mouth bleed.

For the first time, Hajime is able to concentrate on every sensation his senses are telling him. This isn’t like all the other kisses he and Oikawa have shared; impulsive and laced with an undertone of desperation. Hajime forces himself to go slow, eyes slipping shut as he savours the softness of Oikawa’s mouth, of his scent, of simply being with Oikawa here and now.

Before he knows it he’s turned fully around, both his arms wrapping around Oikawa’s shoulders to pull him impossibly closer. Hajime’s heart is pounding hard considering it’s all still very chaste, his brow furrowed like he’s in pain.

Another dim thought strikes him; they probably need to breathe at some point. But Hajime still doesn’t let him go.

 

* * *

 

Tooru gasps into the kiss in astonishment, stiffening before he slowly melts into the kiss, closing his mouth again to kiss Hajime back, squeezing his eyes shut.

He reaches up to grab Hajime’s waist, not needing to pull him any closer after Hajime has pressed their bodies together already. Tilting his head to the side slightly, lips still not leaving Hajime’s, he opens his mouth to hitch for his breath, moaning out a small “H- _hah,”_ returning to the kiss before he can actually finish the word.

Digging his fingers into the fabric of Hajime’s jacket, he opens his mouth again, trying to catch his breath again before nibbling gently at Hajime’s lower lip with his teeth, tilting his chin downwards to stop the kiss, pressing his forehead against Hajime’s until their noses are touching. He presses his hands up between them, letting them rest on Hajime’s chest in front of him to keep a little bit of distance between them, trying to calm down enough so he can listen to his own racing mind.

“Hajime,” he says, his breathing still shaky. He opens his eyes again, still so close he can see Hajime’s individual eyelashes, the dark blotches around Hajime’s left eye that is still healing. Alarm bells are ringing in the back of his mind, but he’s still unable to form a single coherent thought, let alone actually try and find out what part of him is panicking over, and all he knows is that he wants to lean in and kiss Hajime again. “We should—“ he tries, swallowing, but realises that he still doesn’t have an ending to the sentence, so instead he does the only thing he can come up with, leaning in and pressing his lips against Hajime’s once more.

 

* * *

 

The brief pause that Oikawa initiates does nothing to douse or even lessen the slow burn of desire making its way through Hajime’s veins. With every breath of Tooru’s that fans across his cheeks, the more it becomes apparent just how _starved_ for him Hajime is. Like a fire that’s rapidly losing control, every time his gaze alights on Tooru’s mouth (every time Tooru utters his name in _that_ voice) all he thinks is of one thing: to devour.

He surges forwards just a second before Oikawa cuts himself off, meeting him in an open-mouthed kiss this time. A low groan sounds in his chest as he returns the favor of scraping his teeth hard across Tooru’s lip, ignoring how his own is still tingling from Tooru’s own nibbling earlier. Without thinking, he swipes his tongue to soothe the hurt, then pulls back only enough to speak against Tooru’s mouth.

“We should what, Oikawa?” he asks, voice low and raspy enough to be a growl. “Stop?”

His gaze grows even darker as his look bores into Tooru’s. “Isn’t this what you want from me?” he asks again, and then slides an arm down from Tooru’s shoulders so he’s palming him through his trousers, rubbing him through the layers of clothing.

When their mouths meet again, Iwaizumi tilts his head and deepens the kiss, the hand entangled in Tooru’s hair gripping him close with nowhere to run. He licks his way into Oikawa’s mouth, massaging his lips open with his own until Iwaizumi himself is almost dizzy from shortness of breath. He’s pushing Oikawa slowly back towards the table as well, though he doesn’t realise it, too absorbed in a kiss that’s getting decidedly wetter than the ones before. Once again, the definition of _starved_ flickers across the scattered, distracted floes of his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Once again, Tooru gasps into the kiss, this time keeping his mouth open, welcoming Hajime when he tries to deepen the kiss.

He squeezes his eyes shut when Hajime speaks to him again, feeling naked under his gaze, unable to form words before their lips touch again and Hajime’s arm has traveled further down. He hitches for air, without actually pulling away from the kiss, smiling against Hajime’s mouth for a moment before he feels their teeth collide and opens his mouth wider, hitching for air after Hajime — literally — took his breath away.

When his backside hits the edge of the table he stops, instinctively rolling his hips forwards, grinding against Hajime’s hand and moaning into the kiss once more.

Is this what he wanted from Hajime? He doesn’t remember. Right now he wants—he wants _all_ of him, everything Hajime will give him or let him take, and much more.

He reaches a hand up, slides it up around Hajime’s neck to pull him in this time, letting his fingers dig into his skin and opening his mouth further, his breathing heavy, since he can’t bother with actually pulling his mouth away for air, as if he’ll get all the oxygen he needs from Hajime’s lips.

Hajime is so _warm_ against him, his skin burning everywhere they touch, the air still cold and heavy from the rain still falling, and Tooru feels too hot all over, but Hajime’s tone still sends a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t exactly intended on pushing Hajime to this point, but he _had_ been a bit worried before, about how he had just let Tooru do as he pleased, and Tooru _definitely_ isn’t complaining about this turn of events, a bit too turned on by Hajime in this state than he’d like to admit. It’s as if Hajime is finally letting himself do what he’s wanted to, and Tooru revels in the attention, enjoys every touch, doesn’t even mind the remaining stinging after Hajime scraped his teeth over his lip a bit too hard earlier.

Sliding his other hand behind Hajime’s back and then a bit lower, Tooru hooks a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, trying to press Hajime’s body closer to his own.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi makes himself pull away, stifling a gasp as he strives for some semblance of self control. It’s not very successful; he’s not gone five seconds before he’s returning to the heat of Oikawa’s mouth, swallowing every noise before pressing a harsh kiss on the side of Oikawa’s lips instead. As he bites and sucks his way up Tooru’s jawline he replaces his hand with his thigh, jamming it between Tooru’s legs to keep them apart. It also gives Oikawa something to grind against even as Iwaizumi pushes that hand up the same sweatshirt he’d been wearing just a couple of hours before. It’s going to become horribly wrinkled at the rate it’s being constantly tugged up.

He bites at Oikawa’s ear, tracing his tongue wetly along the ridges and speaking directly into it. “Also, that’s twice in the same morning.” he murmurs. “That’s kind of _needy_ , isn’t it, Tooru?” He punctuates that last sentence with a hard press against Oikawa’s crotch.

He’s talking too much; it’s like he and Oikawa have suddenly switched, with Iwaizumi being pushy and suddenly possessed by the inability to stop running his mouth. Maybe it’s some sort of belated sense of equivalent exchange: he wants to wreck Oikawa as much as Oikawa wrecked him this morning, just a little.

Also, he’s finding that a flustered Tooru is kind of really fucking appealing.

 

* * *

 

Tooru lets out a shaky breath, tilting his head upwards and biting his own lower lip to keep any more sounds from escaping, squeezing his eyes shut to better focus on the sensation of lips traveling down his jaw. He spreads his legs slightly, only just to make room for Hajime’s leg, and then presses up against him again.

When Hajime reaches his ear, he instinctively raises his shoulders, letting out a small gasp a the tickling feeling, followed by a shiver going down his spine at the feel of Hajime’s tongue followed by the feel of his breath when he speaks into Tooru’s ear.

Letting out a low whine, Tooru tilts his head downwards again to press his own lips against Hajime’s jaw, unable to focus enough to actually do anything except keep from making more noises.

Pulling back a bit, he grimaces at Hajime, face flushed and the tips of his ears burning.

“You’re not playing fair,” he says, voice not quite as controlled as he’d like, clearing his throat right after as he slides his hands down Hajime’s back to his sides, resting them on his hips.

He grinds up against Hajime’s thigh while arching his back as if leaning away from the hand crawling up under his sweatshirt, except he wants more, and Hajime’s hand is _warm,_ leaving every inch of Tooru’s skin that he touches burning.

Tooru feels completely lost, knows that he desperately wants to do _something_ , but too dazed to know _what_ he wants to do, just that he wants to do it to Hajime and wants to be as close to him as possible, with as few layers of clothing between them as possible, despite the slight chilliness of the room.

 

* * *

 

“Not playing fair?” Iwaizumi says lowly, feeling something like headiness (something like _power_ ) rush through him as he watches Oikawa’s attempts at trying to quiet himself. “I’ve barely done anything.”

The truth of his unfiltered words hits him fully as he looks into Oikawa’s face, at the effort he’s putting in to-- what? Hold back? It strikes Iwaizumi as odd that Oikawa is stifling as much as he can, and he realises belatedly that it’s not so much that Oikawa never holds back, it’s that he usually never holds back around Hajime. He narrows his eyes at the observation, but it doesn’t occur to Iwaizumi to wonder about the reasons why Oikawa is deviating from his usual norm.

Instead, Hajime’s line of thought goes directly to: _I wonder how far he’ll go?_

Vaguely, he’s aware of the heat in his own body, but pushes it aside as something less than trivial in the face of Oikawa’s arched back. Hajime’s hand is still braced on the back of Oikawa’s neck, and now he runs his fingers through soft brown locks, curling his fingers in them (not twisting to the point of pain though, not that) and pulling firmly until Oikawa’s head is tipped back to an almost uncomfortable angle.

Hajime’s lips go dry at the same time he feels his mouth water at the sight of Tooru’s bared neck. He leans in, teeth bared and the points of his canines pressing into the soft skin hard enough to make indents. A sudden, animalistic urge to _bite_ shudders through Hajime then; with an effort, he tamps it down, the press of his teeth softening into a kiss instead. At the same time, Hajime’s hand wanders up Oikawa’s torso, skimming across the plane of his abdomen and ribs. His palm brushes across a soft nipple, and Hajime suddenly recalls Tooru’s own interest in his own from earlier. Experimentally, he digs the nail of his thumb into tender flesh, scraping a horizontal line across it, and then flicking across it repeatedly.

As he does, he layers several languid kisses slow and heavy all down the front of Tooru’s neck, leaving purpling marks in his wake and reveling in the vibrations of every noise that Tooru makes, no matter how small or stifled. Like this, there’s nowhere for Oikawa to hide them. Nowhere at all.

“Tooru.” Another kiss, and then he nips Oikawa’s throat, pinching skin and flesh _hard_ between his teeth for a brief moment-- like a warning, like an _order--_ before laving his tongue over rapidly reddening skin. Oikawa’s pulse pounds under his too-sensitive lips, or maybe it’s his own, all in his head. “I want to _hear_ you.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru can’t do anything but tilt his head backwards and bare his neck when Hajime pulls at his hair, too unfocused to even consider fighting back, somehow completely okay with Hajime having taken control of the situation. It’s not exactly unfitting for how he’s changed while Tooru was in a coma, and Tooru welcomes it. He’s not uncomfortable with letting people care for him, but with Hajime it’s different, he’s one of the few people who has seen Tooru weak and helpless, one of the few people that Tooru is comfortable showing himself at those times to. Still, this was _not_ how he expected things to go, but even so, he somehow continually forgets to breathe. Desperate for air, he can’t help but gasp a bit louder than he intended when Hajime’s nail scrapes over his nipple, leaning into the touch and gritting his teeth, leaning his head further back — not much, it’s already almost completely thrown back already — in pleasure.

He didn’t know the skin on his neck was so _sensitive,_ suddenly understanding much better why Hajime reacted like he did in the morning, each kiss or touch of his tongue making Tooru unable to keep back from moaning, his heart beating so fast he fears that Hajime can feel it as well.

When Hajime says his given name, Tooru freezes for a moment, until the shock and short pang of pain from the bite pulls him back to reality, the press of his tongue against his reddening skin soothing him instantly.

The next words are more like an order than anything else, and normally Tooru would do exactly the opposite, simply to get a rise out of him, but instead another low whine escapes his lips before he reaches up to grab the collar of Hajime’s jacket, trying to lean away from the mouth on his neck making it impossible for him to form a sentence, yet alone a single word.

“Iwa— _Hajime,_ just—just touch me,” he says again, grinding up against Hajime once more to show what he means, already half-hard through his pants. He’s still slightly out of breath, face still flushed, but the more Hajime touches him other places, the more he needs what he had really wanted in the first place _right now._

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi relents, but only enough to give Tooru a little breathing room; he’s still close enough that his breath fans over Tooru’s purpling skin. For the first time he takes a look at his handiwork, and blinks in vague surprise. The column of Oikawa’s throat is a veritable _map_ of red and violet blossoms now, the fact that his skin is paler than it’s ever been only serves to highlight the contrast. (It looks borderline painful, actually. Fucking whoops and all that. Iwaizumi makes a note to apologise later. Maybe. If he feels like it.)

For now, he lets go of Tooru’s hair, albeit reluctantly. He doesn’t answer Oikawa with words, but his hand joins the other one under the sweatshirt, both of his calloused thumbpads pressing against Tooru’s nipples. For a long moment he simply flicks over the pebbled nubs, marveling at how they harden under the cool air but feeling just as smooth and sensitive under his fingers as he pinches and rubs and just _plays_ with them. He rakes an almost hungry gaze over Tooru’s expression, drinking it all in. Hajime’s never been one for metaphors, but now he can’t help but think of Oikawa as an instrument: what other noises can Hajime coax from him?

With that thought, he finally moves away one hand and dips it under the waistband of Oikawa’s trousers. He hadn’t changed out of the sweatpants; usually Hajime would disapprove, sweatpants were not proper attire --(what if something unforeseen happened and they had to run before Tooru had a chance to change? Best he sleep in outerwear, like Iwaizumi does) -- but now he’s just glad it makes Tooru more accessible.

Right as his fingers brush against the fine hairs of Tooru’s crotch, a thought suddenly occurs to him. Impatiently, Hajime raises his hand to cover his mouth, and as soon as he works up a significant amount of saliva he pushes it over his bottom lip and into his cupped hand. Briefly, he entertains the thought of blowing Oikawa again, just to slick him up, then dismisses the idea. He wants to watch, this time.

Without further ado he pushes his hand back down Oikawa’s pants, wrapping his slightly slicked hand against his length and pumping him slowly. Up above, he noses at Tooru’s jawline again, seeking the warmth of his mouth. It’s like he’s fucking addicted to it; for all the kissing they’ve done now, Iwaizumi just doesn’t seem to have had enough yet.

 

* * *

 

Even when Hajime pulls back slightly from his neck, Tooru feels sensitive all over, vaguely wondering just how far Hajime went with the biting, but still not clear headed enough to bother with asking.

The nipple touching is a whole different case, they’re sensitive, but in a dissimilar way, the pleasure building up slower and spreading to his entire body, and the second Hajime pulls one hand away he looks up, for a moment disappointed until his hand slides further down under the waistband of his sweatpants.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Hajime seems to change his mind midway, _just_ when he’s _finally_ about to touch Tooru, pulling back and covering his own mouth. Tooru frowns, about to ask what he’s wasting his time on when he finally sees, mouth going completely dry — unlike Hajime’s just was.

With widening eyes, he watches Hajime reach down his pants again, entire body twitching in pleasure when Hajime finally does wrap his length, leaning in against Hajime, trying to lean against his shoulder when he realises Hajime is aiming for another kiss, tilting his head to meet him halfway, this time opening his mouth instantly around a moan, pressing his lips over Hajime’s.

It’s not a conscious choice when he jerks into Hajime’s hand, his own hand sliding up behind Hajime’s shoulder in an attempt at pulling him closer, hips still rocking forward for more friction. Fuck, he’s very aware that he’s already getting close, and they’ve barely—he almost feels like he’s 13 again with zero stamina or restraint, except it’s not his own hand and that lotion he had stolen from the bathroom, it’s _Hajime,_ and the other hand still on his nipple isn’t even doing much, but it’s still hard and sensitive and only furthering the pleasure building up in his abdomen, pushing him towards an orgasm much faster than he was planning on.

Tilting his head backwards a bit, Tooru pulls away just enough to still be touching Hajime’s lips with his own, but so he’s able to breathe and talk at the same time.

“Slow down,” he says, well aware that he had just rushed on Hajime a bit earlier — he hadn’t expected that—that… fuck, he’s already getting light headed — “or I’m gonna—soon,” he tries, suddenly missing Hajime’s lips on his again before he leans back in again to press his mouth against Hajime’s, pressing his tongue into his mouth insistently.

 

* * *

 

Tooru meets him halfway, responds so perfectly that Hajime rewards him by working over his cock even more, smearing the dampest part of his palm right over the head, rubbing his thumb insistently along the underside, squeezing and tugging until he feels Tooru leaking precome. He can’t help letting out a low groan at the memory of that same fluid: a hot smear of salt on his tongue that was overshadowed by the throbbing hardness of Tooru’s cock filling up the rest of his mouth.

He moans again, sucking on Oikawa’s tongue as it pushes past his own slack lips. Kissing is a _messy_ business, he’s learning. Nowhere near the messiness of a blowjob, but once again Hajime’s lips and chin are damp with spilled saliva, cooling uncomfortably whenever he isn’t distracted by Tooru’s mouth and he doesn’t care at all.

He pushes back against Oikawa, their tongues sliding slick over one another until Hajime breaks off, panting. His own eyes are slightly glazed as he looks over Tooru’s flushed face once more, his words finally registering.

“Then do it.” he says breathlessly. Hajime’s nail scratches over Tooru’s nipple and he wishes that the sweatshirt was off so he could put his mouth over the other one. He makes up for it by dragging heavy pressure from the base of Tooru’s dick to the tip, even more steadily than before. He casts a glance down, and licks his lips at the sight of Oikawa’s flushed, darkened head disappearing repeatedly in and out of his closed fist.

“Look at yourself.” he mouths against Tooru’s ear, and then bites the lobe. This close, he can feel the heat coming off Oikawa, and unable to stop himself he utters breathlessly, “Pretty.”

 

* * *

 

The kiss is messy, turning his already reddening lips shiny with saliva and keeping him from focusing enough to gain any control of the situation, and it’s come to the point where Tooru isn’t sure if he wants to try, instead to just see this out and let Hajime do with him as he pleases — even the thought excites him a bit, coupled with the nail scratching over his nipple, and Tooru moans into the kiss once more.

When Hajime pulls back a bit, Tooru tries grabbing his shoulders to steady himself, digging his fingertips into the fabric tightly, finding himself just as dizzy as before, but in a really, really good way.

A shudder goes down his spine when Hajime’ bites his earlobe after his lips graze over Tooru’s ear. He squeezes his eyes shut and thrusts into Hajime’s hand, halting for a moment at the next word, the thrust turning into an uneven jerk instead as he comes, hot and sudden, leaning in against Hajime and pressing his face into the crook of Hajime’s neck to stifle his groan — without success.

Tooru doesn’t let go of Hajime’s shoulders or try to lean back to assess the mess, instead continuing to hide his face, mostly in shame, as he tries to regain his breath again. He did _not_ just come from being called that — well, he _didn’t,_ technically, but it was what pushed him over the edge. If Tooru was flustered before, he can already feel the embarrassment make his face burn even more than before, and he keeps his face hidden in the crook of Hajime’s neck and shoulder, pressing his nose up against Hajime’s throat. If it had been anyone else calling him that, he probably wouldn’t even take it as a compliment, but with Hajime those were sparse, but always sincere, somehow managing to catch Tooru by surprise every time, and Tooru _especially_ wasn’t used to hearing stuff like this from Hajime, but he definitely isn’t complaining either. Or, well, he can’t promise anything.

“You’re horrible—Iwa-chan, you’re being horrible to me,” he finally says, his voice a few octaves higher than he was going for, so shrill he sounds slightly panicked, which matches the way he’s feeling quite well. Raising his head slightly, he lets go of Hajime’s shoulders, instead reaching up to cover his own face, still refusing to look down at himself or at Hajime’s hand, keeping his eyes shut, as if as long as he can’t see Hajime and Hajime can’t see his face, this did _not_ just happen.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, Hajime withdraws his hand, now sticky and stained for the second time that morning. Detachedly, he entertains the thought of making Tooru clean it off with his mouth— Oikawa is shuddering against him, and from the way he had practically come on Hajime’s command makes Hajime think that in this state, he might just do what he’s told. Another heady rush fills Hajime’s head at the thought… but when he looks down at Tooru first hiding against him and then behind his hands, all thoughts of making Oikawa do what he wants fly out of his head.

Instinctively he hooks his arm around Tooru’s shoulders, pulling him in close against him while keeping his sticky hand clear of the hoodie. The other one tugs the rest of the sweatshirt back down over Tooru’s stomach, smoothing it out and then pulling the sweatpants properly back up as well. He finds that this is enjoyable too: putting Oikawa back together after undoing him.

Pressing little kisses against what he can see of Tooru’s forehead, Iwaizumi raises his hand and closes it around Oikawa’s wrist. He tugs gently, just enough to let him know that Hajime wants to look at him, but not enough that he’s actually pulling them down. Iwaizumi is far too used to Oikawa’s flair for the dramatic to think that Oikawa actually means what he says, and he stifles a small snort.

“Yeah, so horrible.” he says dryly. He looks at his sticky fingers over Tooru’s shoulder and rubs them together, feeling like he should be more grossed out at the cooling cum on them. He’s not. “Letting you come in my mouth earlier. Letting you make a mess all over my hand just now. Truly I am awful.”

Maybe in ten minutes he’ll feel scandalised by the filth that’s coming out his mouth right now, but right now it’s like he has no brain-to-mouth filter. All he feels is a kind of comfortable lethargy, just holding Oikawa in his arms. Which is weird, because he’s not the one that finished, isn’t even fully hard. There’s a low heat thrumming through him, but it’s not urgent at all; he’s perfectly content to place his chin on Oikawa’s shoulder and simply lean against him, waiting for him to stop hiding.

 

* * *

 

Tooru slowly lets his hands fall after Hajime tugs at them, turning his head slowly to look up at Hajime, pushing his lower lip out in his trademark pout.

“ _You’re_ to blame for the mess, it’s your own fault it got all over your hand,” he says, intentionally not commenting on what had happened earlier that morning, but still having to force back a smile from appearing at the thought.

He can already feel the tiredness take over again, and he could probably fall asleep sitting up against the edge of the table like this, leaning in against Hajime, but he knows he shouldn’t, knows he has to work if he wants to have any chance at recovering at the rate they need him to to survive.

“Iwa-chan is sucking the life out of me,” he complains, tone still dramatic enough to let Hajime know he’s kidding, and only after he speaks he realises how it sounds, especially after what had happened that same morning. “Literally,” he adds.

He feels a bit more put together now, since his clothes are no longer a mess either, courtesy of Hajime, but when he looks down at Hajime’s hand, he grimaces, leaning in against Hajime’s shoulder.

 _Needy,_ Hajime had called him, and he hadn’t even been wrong. Tooru almost feels like he’s a teenager again, with an insatiable libido and a really, really bad stamina. Hell, he’s even more lanky than he was back then, and the comparison only makes him feel more embarrassed. Next thing, this diet consisting of pretty much only canned food is going to give him a breakout too. The food—Hajime still hadn’t even eaten—fuck, Hajime still hadn’t even come yet.

Turning to look at Hajime, Tooru bites his lip.

“I’ve never given a blowjob before,” he says, because that’s _definitely_ the best and most convincing way to offer one, but he almost feels cheap just offering to jerk him off after—after all this. In fact, he really hasn’t tried doing that much at all, he realises, even though he’s pretty sure he has more experience than Hajime — he was just usually on the receiving end of that kind of stuff, and it’s not his fault that people liked pleasing him. He _had_ tried fingering someone, but that really isn’t an idea he wants to entertain when they have no lube at hand, but—well, they _are_ at a hospital, maybe he could try and look for some, but that would definitely have to wait. For now there were more important things to worry about, like learning how to shoot. Or whether or not Hajime wanted him to help him get off right now.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi quirks an eyebrow at him, disentangling himself from Oikawa as he does. “Okay?”

And then he realises what Oikawa was getting at. “...o-oh. Oh.” He rubs the back of his head. “I’m fine.” he says truthfully. “Don’t worry about it.”

He looks around for something to wipe his hand with that isn’t the clothes on their backs, and sees nothing except the bedsheets. Deciding he might as well just wash his hands, he reaches for the gun-- and ruffles Oikawa’s hair until it’s laughably messy (until he’s sufficiently distracted enough from the idea of repaying Hajime) on his way there-- and picks it up to drop it into Oikawa’s arms.

“Break time’s over,” he says briskly, starting to move away towards the door and conjuring up the nearest route to a washroom. “Now get back to practicing, _Needykawa_. Be back in a minute.”

 

* * *

 

Scrunching his nose, Tooru leans back and shakes his head to try and save the mess Hajime made of his hair, embracing the rifle in one hand and holding it close to his chest as he reaches his other hand up to try and push it to the side.

He sits up properly on the table again, turning to look at the boxes of ammunition before he looks down at the rifle again.

Hajime had already explained him how to reload it earlier, and after a little bit of fumbling he manages to do it, raising it and pointing it towards the window again, trying to remember what parts of his stance Hajime had corrected, holding his elbow a bit closer to himself and tilting his head to the side. He suddenly wishes Hajime would come back and help him again, definitely not because he’s in a post-orgasm cuddly mood and half desperate for the warmth of another body, or well, it’s not his _main_ reason, because right now he’s still too unused to the feeling of the rifle in his hands.

With Hajime gone, though, the room falls completely silent, the groans and noises from the infected muffled by the rain, but still audible. Tooru situates himself so he can look out the window, raising the rifle and aiming it down at the courtyard, finger resting over the trigger as he tries to pick a target.

He finds it a bit harder to calm his breathing this time, but he _is_ known for his ability to focus, and after some time he manages to line up the shot and relax enough, finally moving his finger to actually touch the trigger, but suddenly doubting himself — before the thought even has a time to blossom, he forces it down, reminding himself of what Hajime had said. They had to do this, to keep themselves alive. Tooru exhales slowly, before taking another deep breath. He raises the rifle again, resting his chin against it as he aims.

The shot is fired before he’s even done squeezing down, and he’s reminded of how little pressure it took to fire it. There’s a ringing in his ears, and it’s not until he has to hitch for air in deeply that he realises he was holding his breath. It didn’t hit the target, but it was closer than he had hoped for, and he feels slightly exhilarated, heart beating rapidly in his chest once more, this time for a very different reason than before with Hajime. Tooru leans away from the window, fearing being spotted despite probably not even being visible in this weather, looking down at the rifle in his hands. Slowly, he reaches up to cycle the bolt like Hajime had done, the action not nearly as smooth as it had been when Hajime had done it with him, his motions stiff and awkward, his entire body tensing when the casing falls to the table a bit louder than he had expected. Slowly, he raises the rifle again, getting into position once more.

 

* * *

 

Unseen, Iwaizumi stands in the doorway for a little while, watching Oikawa fumble with the rifle. Looking back at Tooru’s lone figure seated on the tabletop and doing his best to do what Iwaizumi had taught him makes a sudden pang shoot through Hajime. Tooru looks strangely lonely like this, silhouetted against the window, too thin and holding a gun too heavy for him. It makes Iwaizumi want to run back and wrap his arms around him and never let go.

It’s not what he does when he returns from the washroom, though it does take all of his willpower not to do so; he doesn’t because Oikawa is deep in concentration and Iwaizumi doesn’t want to break it. He gives a small cough to let his presence be known, then retrieves the canned beef and sits himself down in a nearby chair, giving out pointers and reaching out to adjust Tooru every time he sees something that needs correcting.

They spend the rest of that morning and early afternoon like that, wrapped in an almost peaceful atmosphere. Around noon, Iwaizumi falls asleep in the chair, the empty can left on the floor with his arms curled around the clipboard he’d taken from their room during a second trip. When he wakes again, the rain has lessened significantly, and that’s when he calls a halt to Oikawa’s practice. By early evening the rain is still coming in bursts, but the worst of the storm’s moved on from their area.

(That night, as they settle down together on the same bed again, Hajime is met with Oikawa’s breath tickling his ear and-- believe it or not-- asking for yet another round. Hajime had hissed at him incredulously, told him to just go to sleep, and turned his back to him. Wrong move, because all that achieves is Oikawa pressing right up against his back and grinding his crotch against Hajime’s ass. Hajime had done his best to ignore Oikawa even then, but three minutes of Oikawa’s breath on his neck and in his ear and his hands down the front of Hajime’s own pants is all Hajime could take before he’d given up. He’d reached back, turning his head to meet Oikawa in short, gasping kisses over his shoulder as Oikawa had come first. After a few more pumps of Oikawa’s hand and some encouraging words, whispered into Iwaizumi’s ear from behind him, Iwaizumi followed suit, trying to muffle his groan by pressing his face into the mattress as he came into Oikawa’s hand. When he finally managed to catch his breath again, Oikawa was snoring into his ear peacefully, hand limply hanging over his waist, leaving Iwaizumi to take care of the mess himself.)

The days remain overcast throughout the week though, and with the intermittent rains comes a humidity that negates the need for anything more than a thin layer of clothing. On the fourth day, Iwaizumi stops sleeping in jeans (though he still does change into them for the rest of the day). His eye heals, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding at the return of proper vision in both eyes. The bullet graze on his thigh takes longer, but with every bruise on his upper body yellowing and fading more with each passing day, he’s content to let it heal at its own pace.

For the next week and a half, they settle into a rhythm that’s far more rigorous on Oikawa than it is for Iwaizumi. Each day they turn in with the setting of the sun and rise just before dawn. For some reason Tooru has a tendency to wake before him, and for the first day or two Iwaizumi had awoken to not birdsong but Oikawa’s breath in his ear or his lips over his mouth followed up by another round courtesy of Oikawa’s heightened libido.

But as Oikawa began his rehabilitation in earnest, Iwaizumi’s sex life diminishes once more. He and Oikawa work out a routine that works his body to its utmost limit and leaves him boneless and absolutely exhausted at the end of each day, too tired to do anything else but fall asleep almost instantly against Iwaizumi. When he’s not regaining his muscle mass, he’s putting in hours at the rudimentary shooting range that Iwaizumi had set up near their fire pit, and Iwaizumi watches him progress faster both with the handgun and the rifle than Iwaizumi had done with a fierce, protective pride.

Meanwhile, Iwaizumi takes over the management of other essential tasks. He finishes cataloguing every item in their possession and prioritising their list of things to do. He stops being economic with their rations and makes sure Oikawa gets the lion’s share of every meal they have, knowing that Oikawa’s body needs not just exercise, but nutrients in order to regain their strength. This dwindles down their food supply faster than Iwaizumi had anticipated, but he doesn’t tell Oikawa this (not yet), and only makes his plan to clear out the cafeteria a number one priority.

He also begins to turn the hospital into something like a proper base. This is looking to be their home for a while yet, and meticulously he charts out routes for different scenarios. He goes through each and every room on every floor again, thoroughly, marking them off one by one as he picks them completely clean. Their supplies grow as he does, and before long Iwaizumi has put together a satisfactory first aid kit, an escape plan for both walker and bandit scenarios, and planted strategic caches of emergency supplies at different areas in the hospital. During the day, he leaves Oikawa to his routine while he does his work around the hospital. They reconvened for breaks before splitting off again and didn’t see each other until evening, but the rest of the night was spent with them pressed against each other somehow, both of them missing each other subconsciously.

They talked. Sometimes, if Oikawa felt up to it, they had sex. Nothing fancy, just quick and wordless encounters that didn’t progress beyond anything more than fumbling: it was a release instead of anything emotionally charged. What they somehow never got around to doing was actually _talk_ ; not about just what the hell their relationship was now, or about the world (apart from its terrible new threats.)

Iwaizumi understands. It’s far, far easier to focus on the day-to-day and the present instead of dwelling on questions they might never get the answers to. It’s easier to focus on improving one’s aim than to think about family, or friends. It’s easier to fuck each other than to dissect their feelings, because at the end of the day, the only thing that was clear was that they were _together_ in this awful world, and for now, that had to suffice.


	16. plans

Twelve days later finds him and Oikawa curled up in bed. The blinds are fully drawn, and outside the window a thunderstorm drowns out even the rustle of the makeshift blueprints that Iwaizumi has open on his lap. For once, a candle is lit on their bedside table; it’s still too early to call it a night, and the storm had darkened the sky so much that target practice would just be a waste of bullets than actual practice.Without sunlight, there wasn’t much use in traversing the darker areas of the hospital, so Iwaizumi had changed the rest of his plans for the day and turned his attention to fine-tuning the cafeteria plan.

He’s turned out Tooru for about an hour now, stuck on how exactly to crowd-control the unknown number of walkers within the cafeteria. It doesn’t help that his eyes are starting to tire from the constantly flickering light of the candle. Iwaizumi rubs at them, then stifles a small yawn as he nudges Oikawa by shifting one shoulder.

“Oi, get off. My arm’s going numb.”

 

* * *

 

Instead of doing as Hajime says, Tooru leans in further, resting his chin on Hajime’s shoulder.

“But I’m _bored,_ ” he says, voice light but not raised, well aware that he doesn’t have to speak that loudly when he’s so close to Hajime’s ear. Leaning in further, he looks down at the blueprints in Hajime’s lap, wishing he could be of more help — he had definitely started getting better at making his way around the hospital, but Hajime seemed to know every single nook and cranny of each of the rooms he had explored, and Tooru was still uncomfortable with even going to certain parts of the place without his company. Instead, he had tried making himself more useful by focusing on his recovery, practicing shooting every moment he wasn’t doing that.

But right now, he’s too sore from the training he had managed to get in today, and unable to practice shooting because of the weather. He never liked being bored, but since everything had happened with the outbreak, he hated it more than ever.

“Hey, Iwa-chan?” he asks, sliding a hand underneath Hajime’s upper arm to pull him closer, tilting his head to look up at his face, doing the opposite of helping. “We haven’t done anything in—“ he thinks for a moment, suddenly remember that they _had_ actually been doing it just the other morning after Tooru had woken up earlier, too worked up to even think of anything else. “—almost two days now,” he says anyway, giving Hajime a small smile. He isn’t even in the mood yet, but right now anything would be better than doing nothing and letting his mind wander to territories he’s not yet ready to explore.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi flicks his gaze over to Oikawa and then wishes he hadn’t, because Oikawa’s face is _right there_ and there’s a smile playing on his lips that makes Iwaizumi’s heart jump. Thankfully, being around Oikawa Tooru has given him sufficient practice in the art of schooling his expressions; not that it always works, mind, since they read each other all too well, but at least Iwaizumi puts up a front despite both of them being aware that there’s never any real venom behind his words.

Like now. “Then go do something. There’s a tissue box in room 406 and some porn rags in the janitor’s closet.” he says roughly, and if anyone else had been listening he would have sounded brusque. What he actually does is shift to accommodate Oikawa’s arm, and then pull the covers up from where they’d fallen back up to Tooru’s shoulder.

“Or you know, you could help me think of how we’re gonna clear out this stupid cafeteria.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru gasps in offense, clutching Hajime’s arm even closer and shaking his head. “Iwa-chan is so mean to me,” he says, but leans forward to get a better look of the blueprints.

“When are you planning on doing it? Are we in a rush?” he asks. It hasn’t escaped him that Hajime had been focusing more on the cafeteria plans lately, but he had figured that Hajime would tell him — or not let him eat as much as he was currently doing — if their resources were dwindling. Tooru isn’t as averse to the idea as he had been at first, finally beginning to regain his strength and, more importantly, improving his aim with the rifle. He still hadn’t encountered any of the infected in the way that Hajime had, unplanned or in too great numbers, but he was getting a bit restless as well, part of him curious about exploring the parts of the hospital they didn’t know about yet. Hopefully, they’d get to _leave_ the hospital soon as well, but before that, they would probably need to take everything they could get from the place. Tilting his head, he rests his cheek on Hajime’s shoulder instead, still trying to make sense of what Hajime had put down on paper.

 

* * *

 

He rustles the blueprints-- they’re not _really_ blueprints, just rough drawings of the first floor, the lobby area, and the cafeteria with the various entrances and exits as Iwaizumi remembers it (which to be fair _is_ pretty well)-- so Oikawa doesn’t have to tilt his head to see it. He leans back against him, biting his lip.

“...I’m worried, Oikawa.” he finally admits. “We’ve got enough for two more weeks, but we need to get access to the kitchens and food storages as soon as possible.”

Iwaizumi knows it’s virtually impossible for him to lie straight to Oikawa’s face, so he purposely keeps his eyes fixed on the paper. It _is_ true that they have enough for two more weeks… but only if Iwaizumi stops eating entirely after the first five days. If worst comes to worst, it’s what he intends to do, no matter how much he knows Tooru will hate it. Unlike Oikawa, Iwaizumi can afford to lose a bit of body mass without it affecting him _too_ badly at least for a little while, but Oikawa is finally starting to look a little less thin, and Iwaizumi won’t let him lose what he’s gained.

He knows he’s been purposely vague with Tooru every time Tooru’s asked him about their rations, but the bottom line is that Iwaizumi is better suited to starve than Oikawa is, able to deal with the consequences better than Oikawa’s body would. And if things go according to plan, things won’t come to that anyhow.

Which leads them back to the plan itself. Mission Clear-Out-The- _Fucking_ -Cafeteria, as Iwaizumi’s come to call it in his mind.

He decides to confide in Oikawa the various scenarios he’s thought up; Tooru’s the strategist at heart, not Iwaizumi.

“The biggest problem right now is that I have no idea how _many_ infected there are in there.” he says, tapping the blueprint of the cafeteria hard with the pencil and finally allowing days of frustration to seep into his voice. “There might be five, or ten, or thirty. I’ve made an estimate, and I don’t think there’ll be more than forty, but there’s no way to know for sure.”

He lifts his head, looking down at Oikawa, expression troubled. “That’s _twenty_ walkers to kill for each of us. And it won’t be like how it was last time, when we were outside. They’ll be coming at us all at once, and we can’t lure them all the way out into front of the lobby where there’s space because the gunshots will attract the attention of the horde outside.”

Hajime lets go of the papers, sighing heavily and slipping his hand under the covers to try and find Oikawa’s, seeking comfort.

“I’ve only got two plans in mind, but before I lay them out… tell me how you’re doing with the USP. I gave you moving targets to work on, right? How’s that going?”

 

* * *

 

Scrunching his nose at the mention of the gun, Tooru leans a bit away, but meets Hajime’s hand halfway under the blanket, squeezing it once. “I still prefer the rifle… but I’m improving,” he says, looking towards the window as if he’d rather be out practicing right now as well.

“Not at a level where I could comfortably take down _twenty,_ though,” he says, leaning back against Hajime’s side again, turning to look at him. “I doubt I’ll ever be, though. Isn’t there a way we could—uh, sneak in? Catch them by surprise, maybe take down a few before we have the attention of all of them,” he mumbles, a vague mental image of how the cafeteria looked like forming in his mind as he tries to think of ideas that could work. Hajime had probably already thought of it all, but did he know the layout of the cafeteria? Tooru barely remembers it, and he was actually being treated, even though he couldn’t actually eat there more than a few times before he was moved to intensive care and then put under quarantine. He doesn’t actually remember much from after that, though. Had Hajime been visiting while he was being treated? Spending time there? He raises his other hand above the cover to straighten out the paper over Hajime’s lap, keeping his hand there so he can see it more clearly.

“We still didn’t have any more close combat weapons, right?” he asks, eyes flicking up to Hajime’s face as he leans in against Hajime’s shoulder to rest his chin on it again, chewing on his lower lip as he looks down at the papers again. He knows Hajime has the machete — he _always_ keeps it near him, so even if Tooru wanted to forget about it, he wouldn’t — but apart from the pocket knife, Hajime hadn’t really offered him any other weapons. Something that small wouldn’t be very effective in an actual fight, and he’s pretty sure it was more of a worst case scenario thing. Right now they still mostly used it for food or other practical things. But right now, even if he did have a weapon, Tooru can’t really imagine Hajime letting him near any of them without proper training beforehand. It’s not like he _wants_ to either, but, like Hajime had said, gunshots would attract attention, no matter what.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “There’s two ways in and out of the cafeteria, and the back door is only accessible from the outside. No way we’re sneaking past there, it’s too close to the horde.”

His brow furrows at the reminder that they haven’t been able to scrounge up any more melee weapons, other than rudimentary ones like a crowbar or a pipe. No firearms either, though that’s Iwaizumi’s own fault. He’d scavenged them for the town when he was still running for them.

“No,” he says heavily, and the word comes out more as a sigh. “Only blunt force weapons. To be fair, you _can_ shove the pointy end of the crowbar into eye sockets fairly easily. I keep thinking maybe there’s a fire axe or hatchet somewhere though, we just haven’t found it.”

He eyes the blueprints once more.

“My first plan was to use the cafeteria doors as a choke point. We’d open the doors and kill them as they come out. The problem with that is, again, we don’t know how many there are in there. If there’s no more than fifteen, we should be fine, but any more than that and they’ll swarm the hallway before long. We’ll be forced out into the lobby, and we can’t let that happen.”

Iwaizumi curses, wishing for the hundredth time that the hospital entrance wasn’t made of windows. “It’s going to be hard, and extremely risky. One, we need to kill them all _before_ we’re too far out in the lobby. Two, the rifle will only be useful for a few minutes in such close quarters, and three, you won’t have clear sightlines with either gun while I’m up close with the machete.”

Iwaizumi exhales.

“My second plan is actually like you suggested: to cut down some of their numbers before we take them on.”

He pulls out the blueprint of the first floor so it’s on top of the other papers, and circles the area labeled ‘elevator’. Then he pauses for a moment as he tries to phrase his plan so that it doesn’t sound like he’s setting himself up as walker bait, even if that’s exactly what the plan entailed.

“I’m thinking about luring some of them down the elevator shaft,” Iwaizumi says, trying to sound as casual as he can. “I’ve pried the doors open and the elevator itself is near the bottom, so I was thinking I’d hang from the cables and let the walkers come close enough so I can pull them inside.”

He stops again, reluctant to go on. By all his calculations, this second plan is the one with the better success rate, but it requires him to do the thing he now loathes most in the world: leaving Oikawa.

“If it goes well, I can bring down maybe ten, even fifteen. While I do that, you’d be waiting in the clinic.” he finally continues, and just the idea of Tooru alone in that dark, enclosed space with walkers converging on him makes Hajime’s throat close and his stomach feel like he’s going to vomit. “Once the walkers’ attentions are on me, you’d start taking them out from behind. I’d leave the shaft as soon as the doors are clear, and the walkers will be caught between us.”

Hajime’s grip on Oikawa’s hand tightens, almost to the point of being painful. “We’d have a better chance with this plan, but I hate it more.” he says quietly. “Do you hear me? I _hate_ it. Oi--Tooru. If you get into trouble, I might not be able to get to you in time.”

 

* * *

 

Tooru’s expression turns from neutral into a frown as Hajime explains the second idea, and he stretches his fingers in Hajime’s hold to try and loosen it, the grip bordering on painful, and Tooru would try to comfort Hajime if he wasn’t too busy being worried about _Hajime,_ who, according to his plan, was the one of them who was going to put himself in most danger, not Tooru. He’s not exactly surprised that Hajime is worried about him instead of himself, and he appreciates it, he really does, but he’s recovering, and Hajime can’t keep putting him first, not when he no longer needs his help with pretty much everything, and especially not when Hajime is putting his own life in danger for it. Tooru knows he isn’t as effective in fight as Hajime, but he _has_ been improving, mostly with the guns, since there were very few ways to practice close combat, but he’s no longer _helpless_.

“You wouldn’t be able to get there in time because you’d already be in trouble,” he mumbles. “I mean, hanging in an elevator shaft? What could go wrong?” rolling his eyes he tugs his hand back a bit, but not completely out of Hajime’s grip, turning his face away again.

“The doors aren’t that wide, so they should only be able to come out a few at a time, right?” he asks, refusing to look at Hajime, instead fixing his eyes more intently on the papers, but still leaning up against Hajime, just the thought of getting separated again making him crave closeness more.

 

* * *

 

“Ideally that’d be the case, but the cafeteria doors are double doors that open outwards. Maybe there’s a locking mechanism that could secure one door in place, but we gotta think about the worst-case scenario.”

He loosens his grip when Oikawa pulls at his hand, stroking his thumb across Tooru’s skin in a wordless apology. His frown deepens at Oikawa’s sarcasm though. “Never mind my part. All _I_ have to do is stay out of reach while _you’re_ the one that’ll be trapped once their attention tur—”

A loud crash of thunder interrupts him. Outside, a gust of wind slams a large branch into the glass, and the unexpected crash makes Iwaizumi startle hard enough that he drops the pencil, his hand making an automatic jerking movement in the direction of the gun. The wind howls outside a little while longer, and then dies down to the drumming of rain once more. The candle flickers.

“Sorry.” Iwaizumi mutters, feeling foolish. He makes himself relax back against Oikawa, though he does flick the pencil restlessly against the clipboard.

“What I mean is, once you get their attention there’s no going back. The USP holds twelve rounds, but the rifle only holds five. It’s completely dark on the first floor since all the lights are gone too...”

He trails off, thinking about the first time he’d shot at walkers in the dark, about how his hands had trembled so badly that he’d only hit seven out of twelve rounds, and out of those seven, four had been in the torso. Body hits had the exact same effect as missed bullets; essentially, Iwaizumi had only gotten one out of four kills, and like Oikawa, he’d _had_ practice beforehand too. It just wasn’t the same, being on the practice range and being actually under attack.

He sighs again, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek against Tooru’s hair.

“It’s not that I think you’re helpless, or that I don’t have faith in you.” he mumbles. “It’s just…”

It’s just that he’s terrified of things going wrong. With the first plan, things were far more risky, but at least he’d be right there at Tooru’s side.

 

* * *

 

Tooru leans away as slowly as possible when Hajime startles, forcing himself to keep calm and focused, unused to Hajime being as reactive to every little sound. He leans back in when Hajime relaxes, resting his chin on Hajime’s shoulder again and looking up at him, giving him a small smile, trying to make it as encouraging as possible.

“Right — but I’ll bring the crowbar if anyone gets too close, then,” he says, eyes sliding down to Hajime’s lips. “If there’s too many at once it won’t really matter if you’re next to me or not, so…” he blinks slowly, finally looking back up at Hajime’s eyes, mouth slightly agape in question. “Second plan? Do you have any plans for when we’d be doing it?”

 

* * *

 

“Don’t say that.” Iwaizumi says lowly. “Of course there’s a difference when I’m at your side, no matter how bad the odds.”

He doesn’t answer the question, not yet, because his heart is still set on staying by Oikawa even when his head knows that the second plan is the better one. He can answer the second enquiry though.

“I’m thinking we should do it tomorrow or the day after.” he says, hesitantly. “This storm looks like it’ll stay a while, and I want to take advantage of the rain if we’re going to be using the rifle indoors.”

Iwaizumi turns his head, finally looking at Oikawa.

“What about you? Do you think you’re up to it?” Hajime’s eyes assess Tooru’s form under the sheets.

 

* * *

 

“Of course, Iwa-chan! You were the one who said I was recovering faster than expected,” he says, wiggling his legs under the cover as if that was any indicator of how well he was doing.

Raising both hands as if he’s holding an imaginary gun, he mimics shooting at the opposite wall, winking back a Hajime. “I’m going to overtake you soon if I keep up this amount of practice,” he adds, smiling proudly. His progress with recovering wasn’t going quite as fast as he hoped. He was an athlete, so of course he had experienced being forced out of the game by an injury for a while, and he knew how long it took to heal sometimes, but this was different — there wasn’t really any pain, he just felt weaker. But that also meant the small improvement was actually noticeable, but he still preferred the shooting practice, since he had more of a direct goal to work towards.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi snorts, his natural competitiveness rising as usual to anything Oikawa says.

“Tch, I’d like to see you try.”

Even so, he has a sneaking suspicion that with enough experience that Oikawa _would_ overtake him, at least in this regard. It seems he simply has a better instincts for shooting than Iwaizumi does; better judgement of all the factors went into taking down a target, more concentrated focus. Iwaizumi’s seen him go into that zone sometimes, the one where it was just him and his target and sometimes Iwaizumi had to physically pull him out that mindset. It’s a role that’s familiar to Iwaizumi, of course. He’s known Tooru all their lives and it’s this single-minded drive is only one of the things Iwaizumi likes so much about him.

He’s overtaken by a wave of lethargy as he glances down at the subject of his thoughts, and Iwaizumi sits up, rustling the papers into a stack before placing them with the pencil onto the bedside table. Then he settles comfortably down, sinking lower into the pillow as he folds his hands on his stomach.

“Let’s sleep on it.” he suggests, referring to their plans. “I’ll take you down to the first floor tomorrow morning so you get a better idea of the layout.”

He’s not tired though. It’s still far too early into the afternoon for that, but apart from doing the crosswords on the stack of newspapers in the room there’s nothing Iwaizumi can think of to do right now, apart from indulging in the urge to laze around and take a breather from all the work of the past week.

 

* * *

 

“Sleep?” Tooru asks, moving to lie down next to Hajime, but turning on his side with his elbow against the mattress, resting his head in his hand as he looks at Hajime. “Didn’t I just say I’ve been getting better? I’m far from tired yet, I don’t need to sleep as much anymore,” he says, reaching up and putting his own hand on Hajime’s folded ones. “Iwa-chan, I’m _bored,”_ he says, giving Hajime a cheeky smile as he squeezes his hands slightly, tilting his head so his bangs fall down to the other side.

 

* * *

 

“I mean later… it’s only, I dunno, four or five in the afternoon right now.” It’s a bit dumb that he’s stating the obvious, but since Oikawa is apparently doing the same thing right now, Iwaizumi doesn’t think too hard about his own contributions to the conversation.

He meets Oikawa’s gaze, raising an eyebrow. He can guess what Oikawa has in mind; he’s not hard to read, and ever since that first incident he’s been more forward with Iwaizumi than Iwaizumi can ever remember him being.

“Well, what do you want to do then?” he asks, feigning ignorance at the look Oikawa’s giving him. He wriggles his fingers, making Oikawa’s move up and down like a pianist’s.

 

* * *

 

Tooru raises an eyebrow, squinting at Hajime for a short moment to see if he’s _really_ unsure of what he meant, but then shrugs, leaning in further to rest his chin on Hajime’s upper arm, looking up at him with a lazy smile.

“I’m glad you asked,” he replies lightly, hand sliding down from on top of Hajime’s folded hands to his abdomen, traveling further down to the hem of his jeans, carefully beginning to unbutton them, struggling slightly as he stubbornly tries doing it only with that one hand at a weird angle. When he succeeds, his smile widens into a smirk as he looks up at Hajime’s face again. “I have _plenty_ of ideas.”

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi makes no move to either stop or encourage him, but he does reach down by the side of the bed and pull out a small book. It’s the pocket English dictionary that he had read to Tooru in the months before, for lack of any better reading material.

“Before you tell me about them, I’d like to show you a new word I learned,” he says casually, like he isn’t highly aware of Oikawa’s fingers opening the front of his pants. Iwaizumi opens to a page he’d dogeared two days ago specifically for this purpose, and reads aloud the word he’d underlined.

“Sa-la-cious.” he reads aloud very slowly in English, and then looks at Tooru extremely meaningfully, the sarcasm in his voice almost palpable. “Know it?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru hums absentmindedly, raising his eyebrows unimpressedly when Hajime pulls up the _English_ _dictionary_ of all things, as if they don’t have anything better to do right now. He barely pulls down the zipper halfway before he pushes his hand inside Hajime’s trousers, cupping his crotch impatiently over the thin fabric of his boxers.

“I don’t recall the meaning, no,” he says, mimicking Hajime’s way of speaking, casually leaning in further against him, instead resting his chin on his shoulder this time, much closer to his face. “Do tell?”

 

* * *

 

“And here I thought your English was better than mine.” Iwaizumi replies tartly. He hadn’t been able to stop himself tilting his hips at Oikawa’s touch, and he does nothing to hide his grumpiness either as he drops the book back onto the floor.

“Oh, forget it,” he grumbles.“I was trying to make a joke but you were supposed to know the meaning for it to work.”

He’d also been about to compare Tooru’s libido to some kind of boiler (and tease him about needing a maintenance valve to let off steam) but then he catches sight of Tooru’s gaze and just sighs. He reaches with one hand to pull at Oikawa’s collar instead, rumpling it and leaning in.

“You’re insatiable.” he says against Oikawa’s forehead, and then presses a kiss against the bridge of his nose to let him know that Hajime doesn’t mind. The hand in Oikawa’s collar slides down until it's resting on his hip, wrinkling the fabric.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, voice lowering to a murmur. Tooru isn’t particularly picky, he’s noticed, and Iwaizumi is content to follow his lead and give whatever Tooru wants from him.

 

* * *

 

“I’m _not,”_ Tooru replies, pouting at Hajime as he leans in, unable to keep from smiling after a moment. “Iwa-chan just always leaves me wanting more,” he says, pulling his hand back slightly, but continuing to slide one finger down the fabric of Hajime’s boxers, tracing it over his bulge and humming to himself.

“Speaking of—more, that is,” he mumbles, suddenly getting a bit doubtful. He doesn’t actually know if Hajime wants to go any further with this, since they haven’t had the conversation, and he can’t push Hajime with something like this, especially not when he had been so patient with not pushing the whole… feelings thing. _But_ he should at least try and voice the idea, just to see what Hajime would think of it. “I was thinking—since, you know, we’ve only been—you know, and I know we don’t have any lube, so I haven’t been, uh, pushing it,” he also hasn’t really been actually thinking much further about it while they were at it either, too busy with getting off and too tired to entertain the idea after, falling asleep instantly. But things are different now, and Tooru would be lying if he said he hadn’t at least been fantasizing a little bit about it. “I figured—I mean, we’re at a hospital, so maybe they, uh, have something lying around?” he says, looking up at Hajime, smiling excitedly, also trying to come off like he _hasn’t_ been thinking of this all the times Hajime had been concerned about survival and collecting actually necessary things. He hadn’t. Just… half of the time, maybe.

 

* * *

 

“Lube.” Iwaizumi repeats, caught off guard. He hadn’t been aware that Oikawa had been thinking about expanding their sex life at all; Iwaizumi himself hadn’t, having set his mind to focus on what Oikawa was willing to give instead of thinking about what Hajime could get.

He looks down at Oikawa, feeling a flush of heat slowly suffuse his whole body as his imagination momentarily gets away from him. He bites his lip.

“R-right now?” he asks, and feels mortified at the unintentional stutter. Hajime realises that he’s probably coming off as reluctant and hurries to rectify it, adding,“I mean, there’s an examination room in the ward on the other side of this floor. Should I go…?”

 

* * *

 

Tooru’s eyes widen, and he nods hastily, whispering out a “yes!” before he can stop himself, pulling his hand up from Hajime’s pants to grab his collar, planning on pulling Hajime in but instead just ending up leaning in over him, placing a quick, small peck on his cheek before he leans back, smiling widely. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be _right now_ if you want to, uh, think about it,” he says, as if he hadn’t been waiting long enough already -- he should’ve asked Hajime much earlier, of course he should, he actually _knew_ the place, but part of Tooru had wanted it to be a surprise. Now, the possibility is just so close that he can’t seem to bring himself to care.

“Do you want to?” he asks, letting go and leaning back before he pushes himself up to sit, trying to seem just a little less excited than he is, folding his hands in his lap, still smiling widely.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi replies near instantly, and feels the heat rise to his cheeks. “I want to.”

He’s not even sure what Oikawa means, if he wants to fuck Hajime or the other way around or even _both_ , but whatever it is it wasn’t like he could refuse Tooru anyway, not after seeing the obvious enthusiasm flood over him like a tidal wave. Iwaizumi clears his throat, scrambling off the bed.

“You wait here, I’ll go uh, find it.” he says hastily, knowing Oikawa is sore from the rehab he’d done for today. Hajime doesn’t give him a chance to argue, stepping quickly into some sneakers. (They’d found these a while back, and Hajime’s taken to wearing them indoors. Easier to take on and off than boots were.)

Before he closes the door, he pokes his head back in to shoot Tooru one last glance. “ _Stay._ ” he says emphatically. The low-key threatening tone is probably ruined by his still reddened face, but oh well.

 

* * *

 

Tooru nods excitedly, turning to look after Hajime as he rushes towards the door, smile widening as Hajime’s cheeks grow redder.

“Don’t take too long,” he says, just as Hajime closes the door, before lying back down on the bed, covering his face to hide the grin he can’t seem to get off his lips. He’s still feeling the adrenaline from asking, but it went well -- so much better than he had hoped for -- and Hajime had even seemed sort of excited as well, hurrying out the door. Unless that was because he was nervous, and if so--wouldn’t he had said anything? Tooru knows he’s _sometimes_ a bit over the top, but Hajime had never really had a problem putting him back in place when he stepped over the line, and even after the, uh, confession, that hadn’t really changed. He’d just have to wait and see when Hajime came back -- hell, maybe he wasn’t even going to find any lube today, and then they’d have plenty of time to think of it. Tooru tells himself that wouldn’t disappoint him. Impatiently, he sits back up again, looking towards the door, as if Hajime was going to come back already, pushing his legs out over the edge of the bed, biting his lip. He’d just have to wait.


End file.
